Cabin PressureWinging It
by CSI Clue
Summary: Both Douglas and Martin are attracted to the new groundsperson at Fitton, but she's keeping two secrets and one could be dangerous. Can love work three ways?
1. Chapter 1

**Douglas-**

Every man had a type; both Martin and Douglas agreed on this. It was one of the few things they mutually acknowledged when discussing the fairer sex. It had taken a while to get Martin to talk about women—at least without his normal prissiness limiting the conversation-and Douglas was pleased to learn that his captain actually _did_ have a libido somewhere under his freshly ironed shirt.

And during those quiet conversations, usually at the end of terminally boring flights, it was clear that the two pilots of MJN charter had similar preferences when it came to the ladies.

"Shorter than myself," Martin admitted. "I enjoy having her look up at me. Makes me feel more confident I suppose."

"Definitely," Douglas agreed. "Tall girls have their charms too, but there's nothing like a woman's upturned face to reinforce a sense of romantic spark. Certainly makes kissing fun."

"Yes," Martin concurred. "And . . . a nice bottom. Nothing too . . . small."

"Oh agreed," Douglas murmured happily. "A woman looks best with a worthy backside round and bouncy and firm. A double handful and then some."

Martin gave a small yet appreciative groan. "God yes. The beaches in Rio utterly _kill_ my concentration."

"Why Martin you surprise me. I thought the only thing that shifted _your_ rudder was aviation and all topics related to the same," Douglas smirked.

Martin shot him a sidelong glance, his blush evident as he shrugged. "Aviation is my life; however there _are_ occasions when I'm given to a spot of girl-watching."

"Good for you. For divine derrière, Rio is definitely prime territory."

"Oh yes," Martin gulped a bit. "Yes in-deed."

"Mind you, they're not bad in Cozumel either," Douglass offered, smiling in memory. "And_ just_ as sweetly displayed."

"Maybe we shouldn't talk about this now," Martin sighed. "We're neither in Rio or Cozumel, and exceedingly nice as the mental imagery is, we do have a plane to get back on the ground."

"True, alas," came Douglas's answering sigh. "And we hadn't even gotten to the _best_ bits yet."

"Yes well I think we can leave it at cheeky and call it a night," Martin replied. "I'd rather not have Caroline popping onto the flight deck while you wax romantic about what you prefer in décolletage."

"Or Arthur, who would assume we were discussing something you'd need to shellac with varnish to make a placemat."

"Good one," Martin chuckled. "All the more so for being true. Ah well, unless we have a fantastic turn of luck I doubt we'll be getting to either Rio _or_ Cozumel anytime soon."

The discussion was tabled, and within the hour G-ERTI was snugly down and in her hangar at Fitton. Carolyn was in a distracted mood and clearly anxious to get home, herding Arthur out as quickly as possible, leaving Douglas and Martin behind with brisk orders to report back in two days time.

"Well, she's quite the chatterbox tonight," the first officer observed dryly. "Not that I mind, really."

"Nor I," Martin agreed, tucking his cap under his arm. "Have you seen anyone from the ground crew?"

Douglas gave an elegant shrug. "No, but if we want to make sure everything's locked up, I suppose I can help you look around."

It took about ten minutes; the night was chilly and a hint of rain hung in the air so neither man wanted to stay long. Finally Douglas spotted a shadowy someone in a green baggy boiler suit, back to them, sweeping out one of the baggage caravans. He called up to the man but got no reaction.

"Headphones," Martin pointed out, and lightly climbed up on the caravan, tapping one shoulder. "Yes, hello?"

The figure spun, rocking the caravan and jumping back. Douglas noted two things immediately. The first was that the person as in fact a woman, and the second was that the woman was extremely frightened. She yanked her ear buds out by the cord and took a deep, shaky breath. "Oh Jesus you gave me a fright! God! Sneaking up on a person like that!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Martin babbled, holding out his hands in a placating gesture. "I didn't mean to startle you Miss, but you _did _have your plugs in and didn't hear us calling to you . . ."

"Oh, right," she admitted, looking from Martin to Douglas. "My own fault, yes. Sorry. It's just that it gets boring out here sometimes. Right, what can I do for you?"

"We just wanted needed someone to lock up after us," Douglas told her, holding out a hand to help her down from the caravan. It was a small hand, and warm, he noted. Martin scrambled down as well and the woman managed a smile at both of them.

"Fair enough. I don't think I've met you two yet. You're from MJN, right?"

"That's right; I'm First Officer Douglas Richardson, and this is Captain Martin Crieff," Douglas replied as he studied her, liking what he saw.

She was a petite thing, with skin the color of luscious caramel, large dark eyes and a full-lipped mouth. Her hair was in tiny gold-brown ringlets, a mane of heavy fluff to her shoulders, and when she smiled, her teeth were dazzling. "Charlotte Jane Sawyer; Call me Charlie. I'll be filling in for Mr. Havers for a while."

"Very pleased to meet you, Miss Sawyer," Martin managed without stuttering. Douglas could see that his fellow pilot was as captivated by the woman as he himself was. "What's happened to Dirk, er, Mr. Havers?"

"Not exactly sure, but it might have to do with being struck by a lorry," Charlie admitted. "He'll be all right or so I'm told, but not back up to the job for a couple of months."

"Good lord, that's unfortunate. I mean for Dirk, that is, not you working here. That's very fortunate. For us. For you, I mean. For all of us really. Well, except for Dirk of course," Martin blurted, true to form. "I mean it's lucky we're going to have you. Oh! Not _have_ you, just that you'll be filling in."

"Yes," Charlie agreed, not the least fazed by the man's babbling. "Anyway, I'd be happy to lock up behind you tonight. Um, you didn't happen to see anyone _else_ about, did you?"

"No, not at all. Why?"

"No special reason," Charlie replied, fishing for the keys that dangled at the loop on her hip. "All right gentlemen, lead on."

The three of them walked out to the car park under the dim lights, chatting quietly, and Douglas noted how Charlie looked around carefully even as she waved goodbye to them as they passed through the gate. He made a note of it as he thanked her and drove off, mulling over all the possible reasons why she seemed so nervous.

**Martin-**

He hadn't meant to startle her, but the problem with ear buds was pretty apparent, and certainly it wasn't his fault if she couldn't hear them approaching. Martin still felt terrible for frightening the woman—Charlotte. Charlie, that was. Still, no harm done.

She was quite pretty. Quite, _quite_ pretty, in an exotic way, what with her café au lait skin, and that voluptuous mouth. Given what he and Douglas had been discussing earlier that evening it was hard not to think of Charlie Sawyer as a fortuitous gift. The usual workers at Fitton Air Field were a mixed lot, but blokes, all of them, so a woman and a pretty one at that was a nice surprise indeed.

Martin wondered if she'd taken the job because she liked planes. He hoped so, but knew that given his luck it was more likely because the hours were good for her, or because it was an easy second job. After parking his van, he made his way through the house and up the stairs to his attic, wondering what Charlie's first job might be.

After hanging up his uniform and wolfing down a bowl of dry cereal, Martin checked his messages and took down the particulars for two removal jobs, then curled up on his futon, wondering if by spectacular miraculous one-in-a-million chance Charlie might like to go to Duxford with him. It made for a nice fantasy, and he dropped off to sleep, smiling to himself.

The jobs weren't too difficult; the first one involved shifting a collection of ornate umbrella stands from one end of town to the other, and the little old woman who sent them off tipped very nicely. Martin wondered why on _earth_ anyone would collect umbrella stands, but then again, the ways of little old ladies were often mysterious. At the other end, the curio shop was more than happy to receive them and Martin found a sandwich shop around the corner that did a nice lunch for cheap, so he was already ahead.

The second job was a bit more strenuous, since it involved lifting excess office furniture. Martin managed the chairs and file cabinets easily enough, but the desks took some tricky maneuvering with the dolly. The last thing he wanted to do was strain his back, so Martin worked slowly, secretly glad to be alone for a while and doing something that didn't require constant alertness or mental calculations. Flying was wonderful; nothing better in the world really, but taking a break from it did help his sanity. He loaded van and checked the address, then drove off, feeling pleased with himself.

The delivery took him into town, and he managed to unload the furniture quickly, already planning out what to do with the extra time. He needed to do laundry of course, and press his shirts; there were a few meagre groceries to buy and he needed a haircut . . . . Martin looked up the street to where he'd driven past a dingy salon and debated checking their prices. He strolled over, hoping a simple trim wasn't too dear, and peeked in the window.

Someone peeked back. Startled, Martin jerked back and nearly tripped on the sidewalk. Seconds later Charlie Sawyer popped out the door of the salon, smiling at him. "Martin, isn't it? Are you all right?" She wore a garish pinafore with 'Hip Clips' printed on it, and had a hairdryer in one hand.

"Yes it is, I'm fine. Sorry, I didn't expect to see you," he admitted, grinning delightedly at running across Charlie again. "I guess turnabout is fair play, right?"

She laughed. "So they say. I'm guessing you need a trim?"

Ruefully Martin ran a hand through his curls, feeling incredibly self-conscious about being sweaty and shaggy. "Rather, I suppose," he murmured uncertainly.

"Come on in then; no charge," Charlie told him with cheer. "I've got half an hour until my next appointment anyway."

"Oh," Martin murmured, and followed her in, "Thank you."

The little shop was nearly empty except for a tall elderly man in a dashiki who was sweeping up clippings and humming. He looked up at Martin and arched an eyebrow.

"I know three housewives and a city councilman who would _kill_ for your curls, love," the man purred to him. "Not sure about the ginger part though."

"Oh you hush, Edwin," Charlie chided him. "Captain Crieff here has lovely hair. What would you like, just a trim or something more?" she added to Martin as she flicked a bib around him.

"Just enough of a trim to get it out of my eyes, please," he gulped. "So you work here too?"

"No fooling _you_," Charlie teased lightly. "Yes I do, just to make ends meet you understand. Not an easy economy we live in."

Martin tried to say something but the feel of Charlie's fingers running through his hair lightly massaging his scalp made coherent thought difficult. "Um, yes, I agreeee—" It was embarrassing; he very nearly moaned at the amazing sensation.

"Lovely texture you've got," Charlie told him. "So, tell me; what do you like about flying?"

The most _perfect_ question ever. Martin drew in a breath and the next twenty minutes floated away in a charming conversation full of give and take as he expounded in rich and full detail exactly what he loved about planes, aviation, flying and aeronautics in general. Charlie listened, asked intelligent questions in all the right places and seemed to know a lot more about the subject than he would have expected of a newly hired groundsman.

When she whipped the drape off of him and handed him a mirror, Martin blushed, pleased with his reflection. The cut looked both smart and professional, which given his general features was a vast improvement, he felt.

"That's, that's wonderful," he murmured, fishing for his wallet.

Charlie laid a hand on his forearm, shaking her head. "No charge," she repeated. "You're my good deed for the day."

"Yes, but I'm not a charity case," Martin wanted to protest.

Charlie gave a soft laugh. "Course not. Tell you what; you can do me a tea at the canteen next time and we'll be even. Oh, there's my three o'clock. I'll see you at Fitton then, Martin. You look nice!"

He headed out, feeling a warmth in the pit of his stomach as he strode to the van, and even the ticket for the expired parking meter didn't bother him as much as it might have. Martin climbed into the van and glanced at his reflection in the rear view mirror, grinning.

"Tea it shall be, Charlie Sawyer; you can _bet_ on that," he murmured, and drove off.


	2. Chapter 2

**Charlie—**

She tried to relax but it was difficult to do with so much on her mind, and when she slipped out the back of Hip Clips, she almost didn't see the green Vauxhall Insignia lingering at the far end of the alley.

Damn. Charlie drew a breath, stepped back in to the shop and looked to Edwin, who caught her mood instantly.

"He's back?"

"He's back. Out back in fact, and I am in _no_ mood to talk to him," Charlie grumbled. "Mind giving me a lift?"

"No trouble," Edwin murmured, flipping the closed sign on the door and reaching for his keys. "Persistent bugger isn't he? Can't you get a non-molestation order or something, love?"

"He hasn't done anything in front of witnesses," Charlie grumbled, 'he's clever that way, and he knows the law. God, I really didn't need him coming by tonight of all nights. Are you sure you don't mind, Edwin? I know it's out of your way."

"Pffft," the older man waved a thin hand. "I don't mind at all. Home, or Fitton?"

"Fitton," Charlie murmured, flashing a brief smile. "Just clearing out the old tool shed tonight."

"Hmmm, and why is that do you suppose?" Edwin teased. "Could it be that you have some special reason?"

"Shhhh," Charlie laughed. "The less you know, the better."

"And how will you be getting home then?" came the question as she and Edwin slipped out the front and headed across the street to the little lot near the bookstore. "Fly?"

"Not yet," Charlie told him. "I can catch the downtown bus before nine, no worries."

Fitton was busy with the late-afternoon rush of commuter jets—if one could call 'two' a rush-and a hospital helicopter re-fueling at the far end of the field. Charlie made her way to the tiny terminal and after clocking in, climbed into her overalls, making a face at the bagginess of the suit.

She moseyed out across the tarmac, and was passing by MJN's hangar when a low voice called out to her. "Charlotte?"

Surprised, Charlie turned to see Douglas Richardson stepping down the ramp of the portacabin, files under his arm. He looked different out of uniform; less imposing and somehow nicer for it. He also seemed pre-occupied, and she slowly wandered over towards him, her hands deep in her pockets. "Douglas Richardson, right?"

"Yes, do call me Douglas. You don't happen to have a key to the cleaning supply closet do you? I've managed to spill apple juice all over Carolyn's desk and there will be hell to pay if I don't get it mopped up," he murmured ruefully. "As it is I've saved the flight plans, but just barely."

"Sure," Charlie told him with a nod, amused to seeing the second MJN pilot in a day. "We'll need hot water though. Come on."

One pail of soapy hot water and two industrial towels later the desktop and part of the thin carpeting were clean if a bit damp. Charlie noted that Douglas seemed to be good at housework—a rarity for a man, particularly one of his generation. Not that he was old, precisely; Charlie thought he was actually handsome in a barrel-chested avuncular sort of way.

"Thank you," he told her lightly. "That's the worst of it cleaned up, and if there are ants by Thursday it will simply be one of those mysterious plagues that so often hit our little company."

"There won't be; the soap will take care of that. Although I _am_ curious—apple juice?"

"I rather like the stuff," he admitted sheepishly.

"Hmmm, yes, but not everyone drinks it out of a Glencairn whisky glass," she murmured, handing it to him. "Not that it's any of my business."

"Ah," he told her in a quiet embarrassed way. Charlie laid a hand on his wrist and gave him a quick smile.

"Not my business, Douglas," she repeated. "You're in good company and if anyone ever asks, I don't know a thing about it. Anyway, I didn't know MJN had anything scheduled for today."

He gave her a real smile then, and Charlie saw the shy gratitude in his dark eyes as he did so. "No they don't, but I prefer to do the flight plans here were I don't get distracted by the television or the laptop or Martin."

"I see," Charlie nodded. "Yes, I can understand that. Where are you going next?"

"Poland," he sighed. "Businessmen. I think Caroline's managed to get a job for the return as well, so we'll break even on it this time. Boring stuff really; I'd rather hear about you. What on earth is a woman like you doing cutting grass and sweeping out loos? Shouldn't you be at some University somewhere, or running some graphics studio?"

Charlie laughed and carefully gathered up the bucket and damp towels. "As it is I'm working on a degree; special project in fact, but everything requires money and so I'm trying to make ends meet."

"Surely there's more to the Charlotte Jane Sawyer story than that," he coaxed, moving to take the pail from her and walking out of the portacabin at her side.

She smiled. "Born in Hammersmith, two brothers, fond of Chinese take-away and disco music. My dad was in the RAF and one of my brothers works for Heathrow, so I guess you could say airfields are part of the family. How about you?"

"Born in London, only child, sushi is my passion and I've a fondness for classical piano," came his reply. "Aviation came out of a natural ability in mathematics, although I'll deny it to my last breath. That, and a desire to see the world."

"Seen enough of it yet?"

"Not really," Douglas murmured thoughtfully. "There are still so many places yet to visit, and it's lovely to do it from the sky."

"Oh agreed," Charlie nodded. They reached the tiny terminal and she moved to shove the glass door open, but Douglas beat her to it, holding the door and giving her a wry smile.

"Ladies first."

"Thank you," she murmured, pleased. Charlie reached for the bucket but he shook his head.

"Please—point me to the correct sink and I'll pour it out myself. You've already done so much for me it's only right I return the favor."

"It's hardly a favor," Charlie rolled her eyes. Nevertheless she took a few steps over the cleaning supply closet and helped him tip the apple-scented contents into the galvanized sink there. After rinsing the pail out, Charlie set it back among the other supplies, keenly aware of Douglas standing there, arms crossed, watching her. "What?"

"Nothing. Just . . . concerned. I was thinking about the other night, and . . . forgive me, it's probably an obvious point, Charlie, but an airfield at night isn't the safest place to work, particularly one that can't even afford a proper security guard."

She flushed.

**Douglas—**

He knew he'd hit a tender point; the pulse at Charlie's throat throbbed just above the zip of the boiler suit. Carefully Douglas took a step back to give her space and waited through the critical moment.

Finally Charlie gave a chuffing sigh. "I know. I appreciate you pointing that out, and your concern, but it will be all right. I've got a mobile, and a whistle, and anytime I'm out mowing or along the perimeter I let the fire crew or ATC know so they keep an eye out. Really, the two of you startled me because I had my ear buds in; it won't happen again."

Douglas kept his expression neutral, but he heard the tiny quaver in her voice and the sound of it set of little warnings in the back of his head. The same sorts of mental alerts he heard when Martin would protest that he'd had _plenty_ to eat before coming to work, or when Arthur quietly mentioned his father. Having told his own fair share of lies, Douglas Richardson was particularly canny at catching them when others tried to do so, and the difference now was that he didn't let them slide.

Martin never realized that on the days when he seemingly won first crack at the cheese tray, and Arthur didn't when Douglas would give him a spare Toblerone. If anyone had accused him of caring, Douglas would have bluffed his way out, but occasionally when he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror these days he would give a knowing nod to his reflection and leave it at that. No deep analysis needed, no introspection at all, thank you. MJN ran better when its employees were taken care of, and tough as Carolyn Knapp-Shappey was, even she couldn't handle the things that fell through the cracks.

So Douglas did. It kept the peace, it made things easier, and God only knew that both Arthur and Martin needed a guardian angel now and then.

"Those are all very good precautions," Douglas murmured supportively. "I approve of them, but—and you don't have to answer this I know—I'm curious as to why."

"That's a bit personal isn't it?" Charlie shot back uneasily.

Douglas gave a shrug. "Rather like apple juice instead of whiskey, I should think."

She blushed, and in that moment he knew he'd won her over. Charlie shoved her hands into her pockets and stared at the grubby linoleum before speaking. "Fair enough, I guess. A friend of mine's cheesed off with me. Not really a friend—used to be a friend—but . . . it's complicated. I've got something he wants, paid him fair and square for it, receipt and everything, but now he wants it back."

"I see," Douglas murmured. He didn't have the finer details but the basic picture was clear enough, and he knew if he kept quiet that Charlie would fill in the blanks.

"Yes. I don't know if he knows I've gotten the job out here or not, so I'm a bit . . . jumpy. Usually I work during the day so there are other people around."

"Good," Douglas replied. "And you've mentioned your concerns to oh, say the proper authorities?"

"Nnnnno. He's never done anything overt enough to warrant it," Charlie sighed.

"Not yet."

"He won't," Charlie shot back, finally looking up at Douglas. He noticed that although she met his gaze there was a hint of worry in her fine dark eyes. "He's not stupid, even if he's got a temper sometimes. Anyway, he won't be getting it and that's final."

"All right then," Douglas nodded. He knew when to let a confrontation end, and smiled at Charlie before making a show of checking his watch. "But if you need someone to back you up, call." He scribbled out his mobile number on a corner of the flight plan and tore it off handing it to her with studied indifference. "I'm not often given to acts of gallantry, but I'd rather not see you get the worst of it because you couldn't reach someone."

He watched her take it and tap the number into her phone, feeling a sense of relief in seeing Charlie take him seriously. She gave a nod, then squeaked when she caught sight of the terminal clock. "Oh lord I should have been trimming the hedge forty minutes ago! Thank you Douglas, I appreciate your concern. Have a good flight to Poland if I don't see you before then!"

Douglas watched Charlie scurry off, absently wishing her coveralls weren't quite so baggy, and wishing his sense of foreboding would lessen. After she was out of sight, he made his way down to the fire crew break room, slipping inside quietly. George was there, and Douglas waved him over.

"So I hear Dirk was hit by a lorry," he began conversationally.

"Oh yes, nasty business that, but they were able to hammer out the dents, so that's all right then," George replied.

"In Dirk?"

"In the lorry. Dirk's going to need more than a ball peen hammer. Concussion last I heard, and a leg broken in three places. We've got a new girl about the place now—Charlie she's called. Pretty thing. Seen her yet?"

"Yes," Douglas purred. "I have. Definitely too good for Fitton, that's for certain."

George gave a shrug. "Most people are. Still, she was keen to get the job, and seems to know what to do."

"Hmmmm," was all Douglas replied to that, and steered the conversation to other waters, his thoughts now caught up in the gossip of the day. It wasn't until a few hours later before he left that he tapped George on the shoulder and leaned in, voice soft. "I suppose you and the rest of the crew _will_ keep an eye out for the girl, especially after dark, right?"

"Oh she'll be fine," George replied. "ATC's got that three hundred and sixty degree view, and she's got a whistle."

"Nevertheless," Douglas murmured, and touched the side of his nose. George gave a nod and returned the salute, grinning.

It was the best he could do for the moment, and Douglas left, still slightly troubled.


	3. Chapter 3

**Martin—**

The trip to Poland wasn't too bad. Most of the businessmen either slept or did paperwork, according to Arthur's cheery updates, and the weather held up nicely for the landing at Rzeszów. Douglas seemed somewhat pre-occupied for most of the flight, and Martin found it peaceful at first, but by the time they'd disembarked and were on their way to the hotel it was enough to make him a little wary.

"Douglas, are you . . . all right?" Martin asked cautiously. "You've been, well, a bit reserved today and I was wondering if you were feeling well."

"Hmm? Oh, I'm fine," came the older man's reassurance. "Well, aside from the monstrosity Arthur served for lunch that is."

"Yes, Moon crater macaroni and cheese," Martin chuckled. "What one gets when microwaving the stuff for twenty minutes. It certainly looked the part."

"I assure you it tasted it too. No I've been thinking about Charlie Sawyer. You remember her, don't you?"

Martin felt a tiny frisson of jealousy. "Yes. In fact, she was the one who cut my hair. I ran into her in town; she works at a salon there." The memory of that afternoon still ranked high as one of the best ever as far as he was concerned, particularly the gentle scalp massage.

"I _thought_ you looked a bit more clean-cut this morning," Douglas replied with an absent smile. "Clearly she's a woman of many talents. Well I had a chance to chat with her myself yesterday and I suspect something's rotten in the state of Denmark."

Martin shot him an irritated look. It annoyed him whenever Douglas made a classic reference in casual conversation, and even though it was probably appropriate, it merely re-emphasized his subtle sense of superiority. "So you think her father the king was murdered by her uncle, do you?"

"No, I think someone's harassing her," Douglas replied quietly, his voice serious for once. "She didn't go into detail, but she told me enough that I _am_ concerned. You and I know Fitton hasn't got proper security. Normally that wouldn't bother me because let's face it, Dirk was a monolith in coveralls; Charlie on the other hand is shorter than _you_ are, Martin."

Martin opened his mouth to object, but realized Douglas was right. He said nothing as they climbed out of the taxi and stepped into the tiny lobby of the hotel. "You may have a point, but she may not appreciate either of us being nosy parkers you know. We've only just _met_ the woman!"

"True, but Fitton is our home base, and in an odd sort of way I feel it's rather under my care. Nobless oblige, if you like.

Martin thought about that, and found himself agreeing. Fitton was small—tiny really—but it was oddly endearing too. He knew all the personnel there by name, and although he'd never admit it, Martin was fond of the place the way one was fond of a family pet a bit long in the tooth but still loyal. Fitton was comforting to return to after exotic jaunts, and while it might not be prestigious or even well-known, it served MJN well.

"All right, so what do you intend to do? I mean first of all we're in Poland, which isn't exactly conducive to plans best laid in England, and second of all we're not even sure what the threat _is_," Martin pointed out. He gave a nod to the clerk, scooped up one of the room keys and checked the signs along the walls for the range of room numbers. He and Douglas had adjoining room apparently; not unusual in these little places.

"I'm not sure yet myself," Douglas admitted, "but I'm making you aware of the situation since I suspect you'll be seeing more of her than I will."

Martin felt his ears go red but lifted his chin resolutely. "Probably. She . . ." It felt like a huge confession, one that he wasn't certain he _wanted_ to share, but, "she likes planes."

"Ah," Douglas murmured. "So when exactly can we expect the happy announcement?"

"Douglas," he growled, "Stop."

"Oh, so it's _serious_ is it? Well I don't blame you," came the reply. "She's definitely easy on the eyes, and seems to be fairly intelligent as well. Throw in a love of aviation and I can understand the attraction."

Martin drew in a patient breath and set his overnight bag down in front of the door, fumbling with the key. "Yes well _you_ may be a divorced sky-god of renown with more notches in your bedposts than divots in a golf ball but keep in mind some of us are looking for a bit more in a relationship than a quick shag."

"You wound me to the quick, Martin," Douglas chided from over at his own door. "Charlie's far too young for me anyway."

"Wouldn't stop you from trying," Martin replied under his breath, and added more loudly, "Bother, I think we've got each other's keys."

A quick exchange and he was inside the depressingly small room, unpacking with familiar speed, trying not to think about how many times he'd done this before. Carolyn didn't believe in coddling her pilots and this low-budget place was typical of her economy. Martin splashed water on his face in the tiny bathroom and studied his reflection in the light, grimacing at the freckles and pale expression.

"Sky-god," he muttered. "Sky-clod, more like."

That night after a cheap café dinner of ragôut and dark bread, Martin slept and dreamt. It was an odd, rambling cluster of déjà vu moments on the flight deck and half-remembered places like the terrible terminal in Estonia, but after a while that changed and a minute later he recognized the fluffy hair and bright smile coming towards him.

Charlie waved for him to follow her through a long maze of velvet ropes, and he nearly lost sight of her in a throng of people, but Martin caught up with her at the edge of a swimming pool that stretched for miles, the crystal blue water so bright it was hard to look at. She moved close to him, putting her arms around him and Martin panted a little, knowing Charlie wanted them to fall into the pool together, but he couldn't, not in uniform and then suddenly he wasn't in uniform, God he wasn't in _anything_ and neither was she and the slow sweet fall, tumbling against each other down, down . . .

He woke with a flinch, half-wrapped in his bed sheets, shuddering through the last of his orgasm, caught between laughing at the utter absurdity and wincing at the sharp pang of loneliness that brought him out of the dream. Martin lay there for a while, trying to recapture the most vivid moments but they had already begun to fade, and finally he rose to wipe himself clean and rinse out his boxers.

To keep himself from sinking deeper into depression, he spoke softly, not bothering with the bathroom light. "It's normal. She's an attractive woman, and yes, it's been a long time since I've . . . um, had relations. Nothing to think of as odd about this."

His words were mild and not much comfort; Martin hoped the maid who came to change the sheets wouldn't think too poorly of him. He draped the boxers over the shower curtain, and plodded back to bed in the nude, sliding between the sheets, aware of the musky scent around him.

"I wish," Martin murmured, looking up towards the water-stained ceiling, "If wishes could be even be _had_ in a third-rate hotel in Poland that is . . . I wish . . ." he didn't verbalize it, caught up in the absurdity of wanting to say, _I __**could**__ have Charlie_, but the sentiment rose up in his chest, heavy and deep.

No point in wishing for something like that, Martin chided himself mentally. He didn't have time or money or hell, confidence enough to pursue a relationship with anyone. Instead Martin sighed and rolled to his side, wrapping one arm around the other pillow and pulling it close.

**Charlie-**

By sheer good luck she happened to be in the terminal when a familiar Lockheed McDonnell 312 came into view, and Charlie made it a point to work her way out towards MJN's portacabin in time to see the jet land and taxi in. She sauntered out, giving a wave up towards the two figures through the windows and lingered as a group of businessmen followed by Mrs. Knapp-Shappey and her son came down the portable stairs.

"Good evening," Charlie told them politely, adding, "welcome back," to the last two.

"Thank you," the older woman replied distractedly. "Believe me it's good to _be_ back. And you are?"

"Sorry—I'm Charlie Sawyer; I'm filling in for Mr. Havers for a while." Charlie offered her hand, half suspecting it wouldn't be shaken, but the other woman gripped it lightly and managed a brief smile.

"Carolyn Knapp-Shappey and this is my son Arthur."

"Hallo," Arthur beamed at her, looking fairly wide-eyed and enthusiastic for someone just off a six hour jet flight. "What's wrong with Mr. Havers?"

"Car accident, he should be back on his feet soon," Charlie offered up, her hand pumped enthusiastically now by Arthur. "Um, I need to go unload the luggage . . ."

"Right, I can help," Arthur offered, but his mother shook her head tiredly.

"Not this time Arthur. I'm sorry, normally I _would_ let him help but I have a dinner engagement this evening that we cannot be late for. It was nice meeting you Miss Sawyer. Say good-bye Arthur."

"Good bye," Arthur murmured, just as cheerfully as he trotted behind his mother. A little more loudly he added, "Mum, are you sure Snoopadoop and I can't join you and Herc at the pub tonight?"

Whatever his mother said in response was lost as Charlie climbed into the tiny luggage trolley and drove it over to the jet, smiling. She'd just reached the belly of the plane when the last two figures wearily climbed down the portable staircase, both of them still impressive in their uniforms.

"Hey there! Welcome back, you two!" Charlie called, feeling pleased to see familiar faces. "Long trip?"

"Hel_lo_ Charlie," Douglas called to her, and Martin added his own, "Hello!"

"Long enough," Martin admitted when they'd reached the tarmac. "Um, hi."

"Hi," Charlie grinned, parking the trolley. "Can one of you open the hold, please?"

"Allow me," Douglas purred and stepped to the hatch, pulling out keys to unlock it. Charlie glanced at Martin, taking in his tired expression.

"It looks like the trip really _has_ some starch out of you," she murmured sympathetically. "You ought to go home and have a hot bath. Nothing like a good soak to relax."

Charlie sighed inwardly; he was too thin, and he looked like he needed a few more hot meals in him than he was getting. Martin said nothing, but Charlie saw him blush a little, and she moved towards the hold, pulling suitcases out quickly. "Trust me, it does help."

Both men moved to help her; she protested, but they refused to stop.

"This isn't a sexist thing," Douglas assured her. "It's just quicker if three of us do it, and the faster we get the luggage out, the happier the passengers will be."

"Customer service," Martin snorted. "Speaking of which, I notice Carolyn took off fairly quickly."

"She had dinner plans," Charlie murmured, tucking in the last of the suitcases and climbing into the cab of the trolley. "Need a lift?"

Douglas rode next to her, and Martin sat on the end of the trolley as she drove it to the terminal, the three of them chatting easily in the twilight. Once there, Charlie lined the cases up and watched as the businessmen collected them and drifted off towards various taxis or the rental car stand. She turned back in time to catch Douglas and Martin watching her.

"Okay, that's creepy," she told them, still smiling. "I don't have anything on my face, do I?"

"Nothing that doesn't belong there," Douglas assured her, "and many things that look wonderful there."

Charlie snorted, and pointed a finger at him. "Enough. You—" she shifted her finger and waved it at Martin, "—is that your van out in the parking lot? The Icarus Removals one?"

"Um, yes," he admitted in a low voice, but Charlie broke into a smile.

"Good. I'd like to hire it, if you don't mind. I have something coming in tomorrow, and I need it brought here to Fitton, no questions asked."

She noticed both men looking at her now, now the traces of fatigue in their faces gone for the moment. Douglas in fact, looked half-intrigued, half-smug; as if he knew more than he actually did. It irritated her a bit, and Charlie shot him a quick glare. "Yes?"

"Nothing," Douglas told her. "I'm just wondering if it's anything that Martin might need _assistance_ with."

"Douglas, whatever it is, I can handle it," Charlie heard Martin reply tersely, and in that moment she suddenly recognized an old and familiar tension between the two men; an ongoing, subtle contest of one-upsmanship familiar to her from years of watching her brothers. Charlie felt like laughing, but bit her lip instead and cleared her throat.

Dolts. Attractive ones, but dolts.

"It might be," she conceded. "Listen, I've got a dinner break coming up, and I need to talk to you about the particulars, Martin, so if you're interested in half a re-heated Vindaloo and some of my best curried rice, this way."

"And I'm left to fend for myself is it?" Douglas murmured, smiling at his own dramatic tone. "I'll have you know I once pushed a piano all the way to Ottery St. Mary, with Martin _on_ it."

"That was _only_ because I'd sprained my ankle, and it wasn't all the way from Fitton!" Martin snapped. "AND Arthur helped!"

"It _felt_ like it was all the way from Fitton," came the jab, but Charlie held up her hands placatingly.

"Enough. The vindaloo and rice can go three ways, because yes, Douglas, Martin might need help moving my delivery."

"What? I assure you Charlie, that I can load and lift _anything_ you could possibly need loaded and lifted!"

She paused, looking from one man to the other, feeling a moment of uncertainty. Trust was hard, but Charlie knew she was going to need help, and that she wasn't going to be able to finish the project without it.

"I doubt it, Martin. You see," Charlie looked around the nearly empty airfield uncomfortably, and then leaned in closer to them. "It's a Sopwith Strutter."


	4. Chapter 4

**Douglas—**

He blinked, and out of the corner of his eye saw that Martin was just as stunned by this information.

"I _beg_ your pardon, but are you telling us that you want Martin to deliver a World War One aeroplane?" Douglas felt the matter needed clarification.

Charlie held his gaze, and despite her merry smile and dimples, her eyes were clear. "Yes. Not an original—it will be a reproduction that is. It's not assembled of course—it's in crates mostly, but even so, that's _exactly_ what I'm receiving."

"But," Martin spluttered excitedly, "but, a Sopwith Strutter? You mean a plane of wood and_ canvas_, Charlie?"

"That's precisely what I mean," she assured them. "Come on, let's eat and I'll tell you all about it, right?"

They sat in the MJN portacabin, and over the chicken, rice, and a few vending machine bags of crisps, Charlie spoke up.

"All right. Douglas, you once asked me about University, and I _did_ tell you I was working on a special project. Well this is it. I've chosen to rebuild a Sopwith Strutter from the wheels up, and have to document the entire process as I do it. My professors have given me permission to use the resources at the Imperial War Museum at Duxford and I've got privileges with the few places on the Continent so I have access to design schematics and reference sources. It's going to be a _huge_ project of course, but terrific fun, and once she's done . . ." Charlie beamed, waving her plastic fork around, "I'll have degrees in History, Engineering AND a working plane!"

"Ambitious much?" Douglas lightly teased, noting that Martin was simply staring, rice dropping off his fork as he did so.

"I know it seems like a lot, but I've worked on restoring planes for the last few years with my brother and his friends," Charlie pointed out. "I do know my way around engines, and I'm not totally on my own in this. I _have_ been working up to it."

"So let me get this straight," Martin murmured, still looking completely dazed, "You're building your own plane—_building_ it?"

"Um, yes?" she smirked at him. "That's how planes get here you know. There isn't a daddy plane and a mummy plane who love each other very much or anything."

That image was enough to make Douglas snort, and Martin himself chuckled as Charlie blushed lightly.

"No I suppose not, but as Douglas said, that's _incredibly_ ambitious, even if you had a team working with you and unlimited resources. I mean, seriously, just finding the materials alone is going to cost and arm and a leg!"

"I've been given some leeway about that," Charlie admitted, "thank goodness. We've got better canvas now, and I'll be able to reinforce a lot of the frame with lightweight alloys that will give the plane much more stability, but that's what my sponsors are for too."

Her enthusiasm was contagious, and Douglas found himself feeling a sense of excitement at the idea. It didn't hurt that it appealed to his inner pilot, and a flare of interest in the numbers that would be involved—measurements, ratios, design schematics—stirred something else inside him that hadn't been moved in a while. It was a sense of challenge Douglas realized; a call to a set of skills he hadn't used in a while.

It was pretty clear that Martin was definitely all in as well; the man had no poker face at all and was practically begging to assist with the project even though neither of them had been asked. Douglas waited, mentally counting in his head: _three, two . . ._

"Well you can't do it alone; how can I help?" came the plaintive comment.

"What Martin means is 'how can _we_ help?" Douglas corrected lightly, earning himself a sidelong glare that he ignored.

"Just getting the crates here tomorrow is good enough," Charlie assured them. "You know the unused hangar down near the north east corner of the airfield? The one that's too small for any of the jets here?"

"Oh yes," Douglas nodded, "Rather an eyesore; I thought it was going to be torn down."

"It will be in a year, but for now _I've_ gotten permission to use it for my project."

"Really?" Martin murmured, clearly impressed. "Well if it's cleared for use well done. I thought the fire crew kept their old tools there."

"They did," Charlie shrugged, "but since the upgrades they haven't needed most of the superfluous stuff in there, and that means I have all the spanners and wrenches I might need. Mind you the roof has a leaky corner, but other than that it's out of the wind and lockable, so I'm happy."

They lingered over the meal, arguing about fees, arranging a time to meet the next morning and by the time he and Martin walked out to the car lot, Douglas realized he how much he was looking forward to the next day.

Martin was still fretting about the payment. "I won't take it," he declared for the third time. "I'm allowed to do things for a good cause if I like! It's not as if she can wrestle me to the ground and force it on me."

"Exciting as that thought is," Douglas added, enjoying Martin's blush. "Actually, I think she's required to turn in a receipt, so you _would_ be doing her a favor in taking payment to help document her project."

"Ohhhh," Martin sighed. "I didn't think of that. Still—it's going to be damned exciting."

"What, moving a plane, or being tackled to the ground by Charlie?"

"Douglas!" came the embarrassed cry. "You know what I mean!"

"I do," he admitted, dropping the tease. "Certainly it doesn't hurt that the whole thing's being headed up by an attractive woman either. Watching the process should be fascinating."

After exchanging goodbyes, they left, and Douglas returned home, still thinking about the project. He opened his laptop and looked up Sopwiths, gleaning information, and making notes before calling it quits an hour later and heading for a shower.

Once there, he scrubbed up, and thoughts of Charlie crossed his mind as his fingers brushed his thighs. Douglas felt a rare sense of guilt at them; normally he didn't worry about selecting a fantasy, but for a moment he hesitated.

The hopeful flex of his erection broke his pause, and soaping himself, he began slow strokes, closing his eyes against the hot water streaming down him. Douglas concentrated, feeling a surge of languid desire build between his hips as he thought of Charlie.

_Flared hips, just the right size for his hands . . . bouncy chest, oh what he wouldn't give to see her topless . . . a mouth begging to be kissed, no, ravaged sweetly, and between those thighs the softest, slickest, pinkest little cleft . . ._

It didn't take long; Douglas hadn't wanked in ages, and his imagination was easily fueled by the charms of Miss Sawyer. With a guttural groan he came, the thick hot splashes of semen splattering against the shower tiles in a spectacular fashion. He braced his free hand against the wall, vaguely amused and embarrassed by the sheer power of his climax, and Douglas found himself rather cheered by it.

_Older, but not dead_, he thought wryly. The flesh was still damned willing, particularly now. Still smirking to himself, Douglas cleaned off, dried off, and padded off to bed, dropping to sleep in a matter of moments.

**Martin—**

She was wearing shorts. She was wearing _shorts_ and it took every bit of concentration to keep his tongue in his mouth because every time he looked at her, Martin thought his face would catch fire.

"All right, that's the last one," Charlie murmured, ticking off a box on her clipboard. "Four crates, all accounted for. Is there anything else?"

The agent at the dockside warehouse shook his head and took the pen she offered him, signing off a quick scribble before checking his watch. "All right, if we're done here . . ."

Martin hooked the flat edge of the dolly under the last crate, grateful to have something to do with his hands. The boxes themselves were each roughly the size of a fridge, but not nearly as heavy, thank God. He whipped a canvas band around it and hooked each end to the dolly to secure it. "Only four?"

"Four," Charlie murmured, moving to stand near the ramp that lead into the van. "We need to stop by my place for the last bit; hope you don't mind."

"Nnnnnno, not at all," Martin grunted as he tipped the crate and turned the dolly towards the ramp. He'd wrestled heavier loads before, actually, but never in front of someone he wanted to impress before, and while he didn't mind the actual moving, the inner knowledge that he was red-face, sweaty and fighting off improper thoughts had him slightly miserable. The only good thing was that Douglas wasn't here to smirk knowingly at him; he'd agree to meet them at the airfield later.

Charlie moved to help, taking a firm grip on the bar and easing part of the tilt. "I can't believe it's actually here," she murmured throatily. "Finally!"

"Seems to be all right," Martin agreed as together they began to roll up the ramp. Once it was in and strapped down, Charlie hopped out, grinning.

"All right! Into town, and then on to the airfield. I'm so, _so_ lucky today Martin! You having a van is about the best break I could have right now!"

"That's good. I never much thought of this thing as lucky, even though it's-" he caught himself before blurting out, _How I make a living_, "ah, old."

"Doesn't look that bad, although calling it 'Icarus' is a little dicey," Charlie murmured. 'Wouldn't 'Daedalus Removals' be better?"

Martin sighed, feeling a sense of dread in his chest, and shot Charlie a quick glance. She met his gaze evenly, and her compassionate look urged him on. "There's a reason for the name, actually. Not a very nice one."

"Oh?"

"Yes. My um, my father didn't think too highly of my goal to be a pilot. Not unreasonable, given how long it took me to pass my CPL."

Charlie cocked her head. "But you passed, clearly."

"After seven tries."

She gave a shrug. "You passed," she repeated. "It's still a _hell_ of an accomplishment, Martin."

He felt the tightness in his chest loosen slightly, and he rolled the ramp up with a clatter. "It is, I suppose, but my father didn't think it was going to happen, so when he died, he left me this van. And he registered it with _this_ name. Icarus. So I'd always remember _exactly_ how he felt about me flying."

The bitterness welled up and he took a breath to tamp it down again, furious at how after all this time it still rankled. Martin was so caught up in the memory that he wasn't prepared for the hand that landed on his shoulder; he turned, startled, and found himself caught in Charlie's quick, warm hug.

"Then he was a right _bastard_ if you'll pardon my say so, and the first thing you're going to do when you re-register it is change that name," she whispered. "Bollocks to him!"

Martin froze, but only for a second. He tentatively hugged back, overwhelmed by the warmth flowing from her, the kind words, and when she squeezed, he shivered. It was hard to let her go, harder still to meet her eyes, but she was smiling when he did.

"Yes well . . . I've always meant to get around to it, but just . . . haven't. I'd need something to replace it with."

"That should be easy," Charlie bubbled as she helped him close the hasps of the van doors. "There's got to be a pilot you admire, or some plane you've always loved, right?"

The ride into town suddenly became a lot more fun as the two of them considered new names, and Martin was amazed to realize he wasn't nervous. Well, not to the degree he _feared_ he would be considering he was driving along with a beautiful woman in shorts next to him. They discussed pilots and various planes all during the drive into town, but nothing sounded quite right. Charlie gave him directions and gradually they pulled up in front of a terrace row of apartments. She made a face. "Home sweet home."

"You sound about as thrilled with yours as I am with mine," Martin ventured.

"Pensioners," Charlie sighed. "I thought they'd be sweet, but they're not. Only Mr. Figueroa, the manager is decent. The rest of them are brassed off because I'm black, and young, and a girl on her own. Have to keep my curtains shut all the time because they spy on me if I don't, and I've had so many notes slipped under my door that I might as well set up a post box there."

"That sounds awful," Martin murmured, slightly appalled. "None of those things should matter to anyone! Can't you move?"

"I'm looking," Charlie sighed. "Right now the price is right and it's close to both jobs, so I can't afford to be too picky. So-one more box. I think you and I can lift it ourselves."

Martin followed her up the cement steps, working hard at not admiring her shapely behind, but he allowed himself a few quick glances before reminding himself to be a gentleman. The interior foyer was gloomy, and the combined scent of grilled onions, sports crème and cigarette smoke assaulted his senses. "Ohh," he murmured, nose wrinkling.

Charlie gave a crooked smile and would have said something, but a door opened and a lean crone in curlers and a ratty bathrobe peered out. "I _knew_ it!" she called out. "I _knew_ you'd be bringing men 'round! Your kind always does!"

"Her kind?" Martin glared at the old woman, feeling a surge of anger.

"Hotty-totty young thing," the old woman sniffed. "Always laughing and getting up early, cooking all that strange food!"

"Paella isn't all _that_ strange," Charlie sighed. "I'll be out of here quickly Mrs. Marrows, don't worry."

"See that you are. I've got my telly programmes and I don't need the aggro today young lady!"

"On my way," Charlie murmured and strode up to a door near the back of the foyer. Martin waited at the threshold feeling the old woman's malevolent gaze on the back of his neck as Charlie unlocked it and motioned him inside. He slipped in, looking around curiously, amused to see small origami planes dangling on thread from the ceiling.

"I have models up myself," he admitted sheepishly. "Even now."

Charlie chuckled. "I think that's brilliant. My brother Heath has space capsules hanging from his ceiling fan, but only in the den, since his girl friend is always frightened one's going to fly off in some weird trajectory."

Martin smiled at that thought. The rest of the tiny bedsit was fairly tidy, but filled with books and sepia prints. A fancy Boston fern filled one corner, looking healthier than any indoor plant he'd ever seen. "Seems nice." Certainly it was nicer than his own little garret.

"The hot water's always cold and the cold water's freezing," Charlie told him as she opened up a closet. "Mrs. Reed upstairs plays _Eastenders_ at triple volume most nights and Mr. Stewart gets into shouting matches with her over it."

"Ah."

"Never mind," Charlie sighed. "Here, give us a hand."

Together they pulled out a long box, and for a moment Martin wondered if it held curtain rods. It was roughly six feet tall, but narrow, and he shot Charlie a questioning look. She stroked it lightly, her smile tremulous. "This is the propeller. The _genuine_ article too, Martin. This beauty cost me nearly a year's savings but it's worth every penny."

His eyes widened and for a moment he couldn't speak. Seeing him, Charlie laughed. "You look like I did when I first found it. I'll show you and Douglas when we get to Fitton but for now let's get it out to the van, all right?"


	5. Chapter 5

**Charlie—**

Really she was getting very fond of him. Martin reminded her of a thin, half-grown puppy at times; all nervous enthusiasm and wagging tail, completely unaware of how much emotion showed in his eyes and on his face. Charlie made sure the conversation stayed easy all the way to the airfield, and after the first few minutes she could see him visibly relax, which in turn let _her_ relax a bit as well. Luckily there was plenty to talk about, and as they did, Charlie surreptitiously studied Martin, taking him in.

Thin t-shirt from an RAF air show a few years back; she recognized the Red Arrows on it easily enough. Worn jeans that looked a bit loose on him, and a knock-off Patek Philippe dangling on one bony wrist. In the daylight he had freckles like cinnamon dust along his cheekbones and nose, and a sweet mouth that Charlie suspected would be wonderful to kiss. Then she chided herself for thinking such a thing; he probably had a sweetheart already.

And if he didn't he really should, she decided. Someone who liked planes.

"Yellow car," he murmured, interrupting her thoughts. She glanced out the windscreen at the oncoming traffic and nodded.

"Mmm, yes, it was. Is it important?"

Martin laughed. "Oh God, I'm still _doing_ it! Perhaps I'd better explain before you think you're driving with a lunatic."

After he'd told her all about the Ottery St. Mary trip and of Arthur's insidious little game Charlie giggled, caught up in the silly concept of a plane full of hypothetical otters and the ongoing madness of the never-ending Yellow Car.

"Oh my God," she laughed, "S-so you still do it even now?"

"Apparently even now," Martin nodded, grinning. "I'm terrified of some day in the future when we taxi Gerti into some foreign airport and I'll say 'yellow plane' before I can stop myself."

This made Charlie splutter again. "Better in the ground than in the air!"

"Douglas would never let me hear the end of it, that's for certain," Martin snorted. "Promise me you won't let him know of my moment of madness there, will you?"

"Cross my heart," Charlie made a quick 'X' across her chest and leaned back as the gate to Fitton came into view. "Almost here, and . . ." she looked in the rear-view mirror quickly, "Nobody following us. Good!"

"Why _would_ someone be following us?" Martin asked, some of the levity of a moment before gone. "Charlie . . ."

She took a deep breath and turned to look at him, absently admiring his profile before she spoke. "It's . . . a long story and I only want to tell it once, so let's wait until we're all together, all right? Don't worry; you and Douglas aren't in any danger or trouble, I promise."

He shot her an uncertain look but nodded, and then they were through the gate and driving down the main road to the terminal. Within fifteen minutes they'd gone past the tower and main buildings and turned onto the little used service road that led to the old hangar. The road was rutted, and Martin tried to keep the jostling to a minimum, but it wasn't easy.

Douglas was already there, leaning against the hangar doors, reading a paperback. He tucked a bookmark into it and lightly tossed the novel into his car before coming over as the van pulled to a stop. "Ah, I see you made good time. Heavy?"

"Hello Douglas; not so much heavy as awkward," Martin told him as he climbed down from the driver's seat and stretched a bit. Charlie came around the front of the van and beamed at them both.

"Douglas, thanks for coming! I'll just unlock the doors then-"

They followed her as she pulled out a key and undid the padlock that held the rusty chains closed around the handles. It took some pulling to open the doors, and the scraping rusty creak of uncooperative metal echoed. "Need to be oiled before we close them," Martin observed, wrinkling his nose. "Got some in the van but it might not be enough."

"_Any_ would help," Douglas murmured, pulling hard. "I believe lubrication _does_, y'know."

This made Charlie laugh, and even Martin fought a smirk although he felt a familiar exasperation. When the doors had finally swung fully open, the three of them peered inside. The heavy scents of mildew, dank air and old petrol drifted out to mingle with the perfume of cut grass. Charlie stepped in and looked at the right side of the corrugated tin walls, feeling for a light switch. Martin moved to the other side and found it; he flipped it on. Immediately weak light filled the room, growing stronger a few seconds later.

"Good _lord_ this place is a dump," Douglas drawled, and then gave a sigh. "But I suppose with effort it could be brought up to spec."

Charlie looked around and shivered a bit. "I suppose that really ought to come first, shouldn't it?"

"I've got a few brooms in the van," Martin offered quietly. "Really, it won't be so bad once we sweep the leaves out and knock the cobwebs down."

"Oh I think it will, but _any_ improvement's going to help," Douglas shrugged. "Might as well see what we've got."

Despite being musty, the concrete floor was surprisingly dry. Charlie timidly checked the corners for spiders before Martin pushed past her his expression determined. "Let me; I'm used to hunting them down."

"Oh?" Charlie murmured, willingly passing the broom to him. "Be my guest then."

Douglas was sweeping out leaves in broad efficient strokes, so Charlie circled the interior of the hangar and took mental inventory of what was there: a few worktables against one wall; a few rusted metal cabinets; an overhead engine hoist of chains and pulleys; on the wall a tacked up work chart now mildewed and unreadable.

"So what's the story you were going to tell us?" Martin called to her, pulling her attention back. Charlie blinked and looked over at him, amused to see he had a cobweb now caught in his curls. She strode over and plucked it out, grinning.

"Story?" Douglas questioned, shifting to look at them both.

Charlie nodded. "Yeah. It has to do with the propeller actually."

"What propeller?" Douglas demanded.

It took a few minutes, but Charlie and Martin brought the long box into the hangar, and Charlie undid the heavy packing tape with her pocketknife, slicing it cleanly and pulling open the flaps. Nestled inside Styrofoam nuggets, little glimpses of polished wood gleamed.

Charlie lifted it up, and the beautiful curves of the heavy propeller came into view, the polished birch satiny to the eye. Douglas whistled, and Martin reached out a finger to touch it.

"I think 'wow' is inadequate," he murmured, awed, and even Douglas looked properly impressed.

"That," he sighed, "Is a _gorgeous_ piece of history. It looks brand-new; has it ever been used?"

"Yes," Charlie nodded, "But only for a week, believe it or not. This propeller belonged to a French Strutter in Laon; built too late to see any action in the Great War. Apparently the engineer took the prop home along with several other parts, intending to build his own plane after the war, but didn't get the chance. The parts were stowed away in an outhouse for almost a century, forgotten until about three years ago when developers found them. The engine was too badly rusted to be of any use, but I was able to buy the prop from an auction house in Paris."

"It's almost too beautiful to use," Martin murmured, "honestly."

"I know," Charlie agreed, 'but it *should* be used. It was made to fly, not sit on some collector's wall gathering dust. I'd like to think that Tom Sopwith himself is cheering us on."

"He probably is," Douglas agreed quietly. "So what's the _catch_, Charlie my girl? The rest of the story?"

**Douglas—**

He was a good judge of body language if he did say so himself, and by her little hesitation, Douglas knew Charlie was being very careful about her words. Why, he didn't know yet, but he listened, aware that Martin too, was paying attention.

"I went to the auction with another student," Charlie murmured. "Donovan Tating. He and I are both doing special projects, both centered on early aviation. Donovan is much more involved with aerial tactics and combat—he's an absolute authority on dogfights and the various squadrons and escadrilles. He's hoping to work out a, well, a paintball equivalent for the Lewis gun."

"Paintball dogfights?" Martin spluttered. "I'm not sure whether to be thrilled or appalled!"

"Both, I should think," Douglas added. "Good God, actual dogfights again—if it catches on he'll be raking it in, won't he?"

Charlie nodded. "Hand over fist—the enthusiasm for his project is huge. Anyway, we both went to the auction, and I outbid him for the prop. Donovan's properly pissed that I got it because he's got an interested buyer who'll give him triple what _I_ paid, which will act as a nice start-up for his project."

"But you bought it fair and square, right?" Martin asked before Douglas could. He watched Charlie roll her head from shoulder to shoulder for a second before she replied.

"Yes I did; still have the receipt and shipping manifests too, but Donovan . . . he's not one to take 'no' for an answer. He's tried sweet-talking me and offering me both original reimbursement along with investment options with his project, but I'm not interested. I've got a lot to do and anyway it's _my_ prop now. I intend to let it take me into the wild blue yonder and that's my last word on it, ta."

For a long moment nobody spoke, and Douglas watched Charlie glance from him to Martin, her expression determined and unexpectedly beautiful. He gave a little sigh and straightened up, feeling a deep sense of old-fashioned chivalry well up inside him. Charlie Sawyer wasn't precisely a damsel in distress, but her pluck and resolve were undeniable and it had been a long time since he'd felt that protective urge about someone.

It was clear from Martin's expression that _he_ felt much the same way. The poor sod was just this side of completely besotted, and Douglas felt a prickle of jealousy as well. Logically he knew Charlie would be better off with Martin, who was closer to her age and vigor, but the alpha in him wasn't going to cooperate.

"Charlie . . ." Martin murmured, but Douglas interrupted him.

"Before Captain Crieff proposes marriage here, I'd like to know if Donovan is in fact the threat you've been trying to talk around since they day we met you."

Martin's blush was well-worth the snipe, but he held back from snapping, clearly interested in Charlie's response as well.

She gave a huge sigh, which did lovely things for the bounce of her chest, Douglas noted.

"Yes all right, you're in the right on that. Donovan's gotten much more persistent and ummm, forceful about wanting the prop. I've heard from a mutual acquaintance that his potential buyer has rather upped the ante so I'm a bit more on my guard."

"You should get it insured," Martin murmured. Douglas shot him an inquiring look, impressed despite himself.

"Insured?" Charlie asked.

"I've dealt with a lot of antiques while moving households," Martin admitted quietly. "Homeowners talk, and I know that you can get nearly anything insured if it's got proper documentation and proof of ownership."

"Martin you astound me," Douglas told him lightly. "For once that overly-cautious nature of yours is proving damned practical. What about it, Charlie?"

"I don't know," came another sigh. "To do that would require an appraisal, and I doubt any company would cover it if they knew I was actually going to USE it—not much point if there's the risk it's going to be damaged or destroyed in everyday use now is there?"

"Possibly," Douglas acknowledged, "but a little research should help clear that up. Now I suggest we move the crates in and think about lunch somewhere to celebrate."

This proposal met with unanimous approval and within an hour the three of them had finished unloading the crates and were swinging by Charlie's flat so she could put away the paperwork. Martin had warned him about the tenants, and Douglas could see for himself that the place looked dismal. He and Martin stood awkwardly in the foyer, waiting, as Charlie darted into her lodgings.

A ferocious scarecrow of a woman lounged in her own doorway, glaring at them. "_Two_," she muttered. "I wouldn't put it past that tarty bit of business!"

Douglas felt himself bristle; generally he was polite to women and the elderly, but this degree of insult against someone he knew was a bit much. He shot the woman a hard glare as Charlie sauntered out in a pretty frock now.

"Ohh, dressing up now? Well I hope you're very pleased with yourself!" came the sharp comment.

Charlie moved between Martin and Douglas and instinctively both men slipped their arms around her, courtly protectiveness radiating off of them. Douglas was about to speak, but Charlie beat him to it, her own arms sliding around him and Martin.

"But of course, Mrs. Marrows, they're _both_ my boyfriends, you know—the more the merrier, right?"

Douglas wasn't prepared for Charlie's kiss, which landed as soft and warm as the pad of a kitten's paw against his lower lip. Before he could quite recover from that, Charlie had planted the same on Martin, who looked absolutely gobsmacked by it. Charlie beamed at the old witch, but Douglas noted the faint tremble of that beautiful mouth, felt the spastic squeeze of her arm around him.

He hugged back.


	6. Chapter 6

**Martin—**

He was in love. Simple, true, not-to-be-denied, oh no, this was truly it. Martin knew down to his toenails that what he felt for Charlie went beyond simply physical attraction and well into that vast unknown virgin territory in his heart.

The little kiss clinched it of course. He'd been unable to say anything, not even before, when Charlie had outrageously commented to the old bat about having two boyfriends. Martin had _wanted_ to say something, but the kiss—delicate and warm—had wiped the slate of his thoughts clean, and he'd allowed Charlie to lead him out and to the van where he went through the motions automatically, hyper-aware of the press of her thigh against his on the long bench seat.

Martin couldn't remember what they'd had for lunch—it might have even been Sushi if Douglas had picked the place—all he did remember was the way Charlie looked at him now and again, her dark eyes soft. The memory of those shy little glances sent hot pangs of joy through him, and afterwards, when he and Douglas dropped her off again at the horrible flat, he felt no need to share his recent epiphany.

Not that it mattered; the Sky God knew all, apparently.

"You are smitten," Douglas pronounced on the way back to the airfield to his car. "Seriously smitten. Usually when you're attracted to a woman you get all tongue-tied and blustery, but I don't think you managed a single word all through lunch."

"Charlie's different."

"She most certainly is," Douglas agreed. "It isn't_ every_ woman who knows the history of the Lafayette Escadrille."

Martin felt his irritation rise. "It's more than that Douglas and you _know_ it. Listen, I don't want to get into it right now, all right? She makes me feel good and I don't want to ruin it by listening to your analysis of it all."

He caught the other man's heavy-shouldered shrug out of the corner of his eye, and Douglas said nothing for the rest of the trip. Once they'd reached the hangar though, he spoke once more, looking at Martin with a serious expression on his face.

"I wish I could be noble about this and stand aside for you Martin; wish you the best of luck in pursuing Miss Sawyer but I can't quite bring myself to do it. Not that _I'm_ going after her; I'm a bit old for her, and my track record in the romance department is pretty tarnished, but I'm willing to let _her_ make the choice."

Martin tensed, feeling old resentments rushing in along with new fears. Douglas. Yes of course. Always so suave, so full of stories about romantic conquests, so bloody _sure_ of himself around women. He wanted more than anything to lay into the man, but held back and forced himself to speak softly. "Let _her_ make the choice is it? _That's_ your intention?"

"Yes," came the light reply. "Martin, I've competed with you over a great number of things in the past few years and majority of them didn't really matter to me, but this is different. Charlie is, well, her own woman. I've got no right to coerce her into anything she doesn't want."

"Of course you don't," Martin gritted his teeth, "but I'm not sure I _believe_ you, Douglas, because I've been burned just a _lit-tle_ too often not to be suspicious. You're right; Charlie _is_ her own woman, and that's part of what makes her special, but more than that she's too good for either one of us. Honestly, _you're_ a middle-aged Lothario with a few divorces and _I'm_ a workaholic git with no money and the social skills of a hedgehog, not to mention that neither of us has any true job security. Quite a pair of catches, aren't we?" he finished with bitterness.

"Well when you put it like that," Douglas admitted heavily, "No. But she seems to like us just the same."

Martin opened his mouth, paused, and closed it again. Neither of them spoke for a long moment, and then Douglas gave a small, uncertain smile.

"Martin, I _do_ still remember the first time I fell in love, and it's because of that memory that I'm willing to be straightforward with you. Love is terrifying and exhilarating and unearthly. You may have thought you'd found the best sensation in the world when you discovered flight, but right now that's taking a back seat to what's going on in your stomach and balls and brain. I've _been_ there my lad, and I understand."

"I'm not . . ." Martin began, and stopped. "God. Don't say anything, Douglas. Please just . . . don't."

When Douglas looked at him, Martin saw that rarest of expressions cross his face. Douglas Richardson was capable of compassion, but he hardly ever allowed it expression in his dark hound eyes. This time it was there, warm and quiet.

"Goodnight, Martin," he murmured, and climbed into his car. The Lexus drove away, and for a long time Martin Crieff leaned against his van, watching the distant landings and take-offs across Fitton's fields, breathing in the scent of the grass.

They fell into a routine, the three of them. Any weekend that G-ERTI was home, Martin and Douglas would come out to the hangar and assist Charlie with the Strutter. They'd do a carry-away lunch, and putter around a bit more, then close the hangar up and head to Douglas's house.

At first Martin wasn't comfortable with that; Douglas had a fairly upscale two-storey house at the end of a charming little lane near a park. It was posh and quiet and a thousand times better than his own tiny garret, but from the first visit he relaxed when Martin realized how empty it actually was. The walls were mostly bare, and what furniture there was consisted of a living room set, a flat-screen telly and several bookcases. All the little touches that generally made a home: photos, plants, curtains, magnets on the fridge—these were missing.

Of the two upstairs bedrooms one was closed off; Douglas muttered something about messy storage there. The other one looked like a half-finished home office, and back downstairs, Douglas's own master bedroom was fairly spartan, with only a framed photo of a toddler on his dressing table amid stacks of novels. No mirrors on the ceiling, Martin noted, none of the hedonistic playboy touches he'd expected to find in the inner sanctum of a Sky God.

He relaxed. Douglas had a well-stocked kitchen and an impressive library, but it was clear that alimony was keeping him on a tight budget these days. Martin found a bit of sympathy for those economies if grudgingly, and found himself occasionally helping with yardwork on the back garden, or bringing a store-bought dessert to share.

Charlie settled in easily, and the happy routine of dinner and a movie became their default. Douglas liked dramas, particularly historical ones whereas Charlie was happy with nearly anything. Martin preferred aviation films, but he deferred to the others more often than not, simply basking in having an evening's company as sweet compensation. The sofa easily held the three of them with Charlie in the middle, and the commentary flew fast and furious as they all passed judgment on the evening's entertainment.

Simply being together was comfortable; increasingly so, and Martin found himself looking forward to it. He still kept an eye on Douglas, still kept waiting for the man to make a move on Charlie, but as the weeks went by and it didn't happen, Martin wondered if perhaps this time Douglas meant what he'd said.

And he began to feel a sense of hope.

**Charlie-**

"Why isn't there a car chase?" Charlie grumbled. "Car chases liven anything up."

"Mostly because it's a medical thriller," Douglas reminded her with amusement. "The only speed we'll see is either the ambulance, or the billing office."

"Yes well I'm going to bloody well nod off at this rate; we all agree the anesthesiologist is the killer, right?" she demanded, wondering if she dared paint her toenails. The bottle of varnish was in her purse, and she debated fishing it out.

"I thought it was the nurse!" Martin protested. "The one with the witchy-looking eyebrows."

"Really? Well _I_ thought it was that dour-looking dustman. The camera keeps showing him passing the hallways," Douglas said. "Lurking about in sinister fashion."

"Great, now we'll have to sit through the rest of it to find out which one of us is right," Charlie sighed, although she grinned. Both Douglas and Martin were on the sofa with her, warm and within arm's reach, which was where she liked them. Over the past few months Charlie had made it a point to cross into their personal space, with the happy result that both men were perfectly comfortable with her proximity.

It was easy with Douglas, but getting Martin acclimated to her presence was like gentling a skittish horse. Charlie was patient, though, and gradually Martin had loosened up enough to relax and even stretch out his long legs. She made sure to move slowly around him, and kept her natural affection on a low level as she did so.

They were both so amazing. In her lifetime Charlie had met dozens of men, many of them pilots or connected with aviation. Generally they came in two stereotypes: cocksure pilots with the emotional mentality of teen boys, or chauvinistic war horses who honestly didn't believe women belonged in the sky. Most of her brother's friends fell into the first category, and unfortunately several of her professors fell into the latter, even if they tried to hide their beliefs.

But Douglas and Martin were something else. Oh Douglas put up the façade of Sky God, but Charlie had seen through that from the first day. He played up a false reputation to fit in, and Charlie understood that; the brotherhood of pilots was an exalted little club she'd probably never be admitted to, socially. The difference between most of the others in it and Douglas was that he knew what he was doing, and could drop the act when out of the limelight.

And Martin . . . Martin was the Little Engine That Could. The sheer earnestness that radiated off of him was warm and compassionate as sunshine, even when he blustered and whinged. Frankly the story of his career was amazing in terms of perseverance and dedication, and to top all that, he was bright, funny and completely unaware of his own charms. Charlie found it endearing that Captain Crieff had no idea of how sweet he actually was, despite his self-protectively pedantic ways.

And they were both_ attractive_, she admitted to herself sheepishly. It had been a long time since she and Terry parted company; she missed being an intimate relationship more than she wanted to acknowledge. Both Martin and Douglas smelled lovely with their hints of cologne and musk and fuel. Martin had eyes that seemed to shift color at times, going from greenish grey to blue and back again, while Douglas had the velvety chocolate eyes of a Basset Hound. Neither of them seemed to get haircuts regularly, which meant they tended to be a bit shaggy, although to different effect. Martin's curls tended to give him Raphaelite appearance of a young poet, and Douglas' smoothly winged bangs made him look a bit like Oscar Wilde at times.

Charlie adored them both, which struck her as slightly selfish, if not outright indulgent, but they'd come to her as a pair, and it didn't seem right to break up the set. Each man had his own charms and although her comment to Mrs. Marrow—_They're __**both**__ my boyfriends you know_—had initially been facetious, Charlie found herself considering it to be more and more to be truth than fiction.

"I suppose I ought to put the bins out," Douglas grumbled softly, bringing her back to the here and now. "Could we pause it so I don't miss any vital clues?"

"Sure. Need help?" Charlie called as Douglas rose and stretched a bit. Martin hit the button on the remote and made a move as if to rise, but Douglas shook his head.

"No I've got it. Last time I forgot pickup day and the garage reeked of salmon en croquette for a week."

"Ugh," Martin murmured.

"Quite. I'll be back in a tick, no need to stir," came the reply as he headed off. Charlie reached for her purse and took out the little bottle of varnish, shaking it. Martin shot her a sidelong glance.

"What's that?"

"I've been thinking about doing my toenails," Charlie admitted. "Horrendously girly of me I know, but the color's one of my favorites. If I could, I'd paint the Strutter this exact shade of soft gold."

"Gold," Martin snorted lightly. "It's utterly wrong for the time period and anyway, you'd blind anyone plane spotting on a sunny day. Oh God, I'm sorry! That sounded so . . . stuffy! Um, gold is lovely, really, Charlie; it will look terrific on your toes," he trailed off, looking contrite.

"Oh I _know_ it would be silly; if I did the plane in gold Arthur would think I was flying a partially unwrapped Toblerone, but it's fun to think about," Charlie told him in an indulgently forgiving tone. Before Martin could reply, the loud roar of a motorcycle and the sounds of crashing made them both jump. Charlie dropped the bottle and dashed up, running lightly for the front door and skittered out in time to see the motorcycle speed off down the lane.

Martin shot past her to the fallen garbage bins; Douglas lay sprawled between them half on and half off of the kerb, and the sight made her gasp a little as she hurried over.

"Douglas!" Martin called, dropping to reach for him. "God, are you hurt?"

The stream of deep, rich cursing that came back assured them both that Douglas was alive and indeed hurt. They helped him sit up and under the streetlight Charlie could see that not only did he have a bloody nose, but that he was also gripping his right leg and grimacing.

"We have to get you to A&E," Martin told him firmly. "What happened?"

"The imbecile on the Triumph didn't see me rolling the bins and clipped one," Douglas groaned. "Knocked me on my delicate arse and I hit my knee on the kerb. Bastard!"

It took both of them to help Douglas up and into the Lexus; Charlie used her sleeve to help staunch the blood from his nose and they drove to the Medical Plaza as quickly as they could. Hardly anyone was in the waiting room so Douglas was whisked in almost immediately. Charlie and Martin sat wordlessly for a while, and when he put an arm around her she leaned against him, sighing.

"Carolyn. We'll have to call her. MJN's got a trip on Wednesday to Glasgow and she'll need to find another pilot," Martin was fretting. "And report the accident of course."

"Yes," Charlie replied softly. "And tell his family. Who should we call?"

Martin glanced at her, his expression guarded and sad. "His ex-wife I suppose, but I'm not sure that's a good idea."

Charlie nodded. "Maybe we should wait until we know more ourselves."

"Probably best," Martin agreed.

Treatment took nearly an hour, but when they were called, the pair of them followed the orderly down the hall and to the first room on the left. Douglas was there, scowling. His trousers had been cut at mid-thigh and his right knee was heavily bandaged and braced.

"Mr. Richardson has a ruptured tendon," the young doctor—Doctor Patel according to his nametag- told them serenely. "According to the x-ray the tear is minor enough that I do not think it will need surgery, but he _will_ need to wear the Velcro support cast for a few weeks and then a splint for a few more. Also he'll need to follow through with some physical therapy to keep the healing tendon and muscles of the leg from weakening."

"A cast?" Charlie murmured, moving over to slip an arm around Douglas' shoulders. His arm curled around her hips and when he looked at her she could see how wide-blown his pupils were.

"Indeed. He'll be off work for at _least_ two weeks," came the reply. "I've given him an injection for pain and a prescription for more, to be used as needed. Will you be taking care of him?"

"Yes," Charlie and Martin chimed in together.

Douglas lolled his head back and looked at them, his words slightly slurred. "Of course. These are _both_ my significant others I'll have you know."

Doctor Patel gave Charlie and Martin an amused glance. "Congratulations sir; then you'll _definitely_ want to get that knee back in shape."

Charlie watched Martin's face flush, and felt Douglas' arm around her hips tighten as the doctor stepped out. She looked down at Douglas and snorted. "Both of us, hmmmm?"

"_You_ started it," Douglas murmured, leaning his head against her hip.

"Douglas, I am NOT your significant other!" Martin protested.

"Indeed. I said you were ONE of my significant others," came the reply. "At the moment I'm tired and a bit stoned, so I would appreciate it if you'd take me home, darlings."


	7. Chapter 7

**Douglas-**

He wasn't in serious pain now; just a dull throb radiating from the knee to somewhere behind his eyes. The lovely floating sensation of the hydrocone made him a bit light-headed and loose, but Douglas knew he could handle that; after all, he used to down entire bottles of Talisker back in the day. The trick was to do everything slowly and deliberately.

Like the way he let Charlie roll him onto the bed for example. He flopped back onto the mattress while Martin gently lifted his leg for him. Douglas felt rather like royalty, with two attendants taking care of him.

"Douglas, we're not hurting you are we?" Martin asked, leaning over the bed and staring at him. Douglas was aware of how pale he looked.

"I'm _fine_, darling," he replied, just to see the other man blush.

"I'm_ not_ your darling, I'm your captain," came the reply in a slightly sulky tone. "That had better be the drugs talking."

"I'm sure it is," Charlie murmured, but Douglas swore she winked at him. Emboldened by this, he gave a little purr when she reached over to fluff the pillow behind his head.

"I think I rather like this two for one deal," Douglas said to her solemnly. "Mind you, in my head it's generally been you and your twin sister, but I'm open to variety and Sir _does_ have his charms."

"Douglas!" came the squawk from Martin.

Charlie laughed, and brushed Douglas' bangs back from his forehead. "Shhhh, you're making him blush, which is very mean of you."

"Oh Martin knows I don't mean half of what I say; he simply doesn't know _which_ half to dismiss," Douglas pointed out dreamily.

"I'm leaning towards dismissing it _all_," Martin snapped. "Drugs or no drugs. Honestly Douglas, you've never before shown any indications of, er . . ."

"Bi-sexuality?" Douglas offered, closing his eyes.

"Right," Martin plowed on, "so this is carrying the joke a bit far, isn't it?"

"You can be a darling without sex per se," Charlie pointed out gently. "It's getting late and I think Douglas ought to get some sleep, yes?"

"One of us ought to stay," Martin murmured, and Douglas opened his eyes again to look up at them.

"I can stay," Charlie offered. "Not really a hardship, and I won't need to be at the shop until ten tomorrow."

"No _I_ should do it; I still need to call Carolyn anyway—"

"You should BOTH stay," Douglas interjected. "God knows I have the room and my ego would love to believe that neither of you trusts me alone with the other. Yes, Martin_ that_ was the medication talking that time. In all seriousness though, there's plenty of room. The sofa's free, and as you can see this bed's a king. Given that I'm injured, drugged to the gills and about to fall into heavily sedated sleep I can promise that everyone's virginity is safe tonight."

"I'm _not_ a virgin," Martin announced in a strangled tone, with Charlie chiming in half a sentence behind him. An awkward little pause filled the moment, and finally Douglas laughed, a deep warm chuckle of giddy amusement, loosened by opiates.

"Well that saves me the trouble of a dual seduction right there; nevertheless, it's beddy-bye time for First Officer Richardson, so I leave the two of you to toss a coin for the sofa."

He closed his eyes again, only half-listening to the whispers drifting his way as Martin and Charlie quietly left the master bedroom, arguing in little hisses. After a while, Douglas fell asleep and dreamed.

_An airport in California; Douglas wasn't sure which one, but it was small. He found himself passing through various security gates over and over, trying to reach G-ERTI out on the tarmac but failing every time. Through the big glass windows he could see Carolyn and Arthur urging him to hurry up, but when he passed through the last checkpoint he was suddenly on a beach in Spain. A woman came up to him and held out a basket of doorknobs._

"_If they don't go one way they go the other," she told him urgently._

He woke to the sound of rain, and the ache of his bladder along with throbs from his knee made him groan. Douglas checked his watch; three thirty-two in the morning.

The dead hours. Oh God how Douglas remembered those.

He gave a sigh and considered exactly how best to get out of bed with the least amount of pain. In the process of shifting, Douglas managed to sit up, but the creak of the bedsprings made him realize that someone else was on the mattress.

Douglas froze and looked over, recognizing the skinny frame folded like a lawn chair on the other side of the bed. Martin was burrowed under the duvet, his bunny-soft snores lost in the sound of the rain. It touched Douglas more than he could say that Martin was comfortable enough not only to stay but to actually sleep on the bed. He smiled in the darkness, and leaned over to shake his captain by the shoulder.

"Martin," he rumbled softly. Getting no answer Douglas added, "Daaaarling."

"Nunnnngh," came the incomprehensible reply.

"Bother," Douglas muttered and began the laborious steps of getting to his feet. He'd just shifted his weight off the bed when Martin woke with a start, rolling over to blink at him.

"Douglas, no—let me help," came the croaky sigh. "God, what time is it?"

"Too early," Douglas replied. "Did you reach Carolyn?"

"Yes. She told me quote 'I'll get Herc to do it; he owes me a favor' so I suppose I'll make the trip on Wednesday with him. How's your leg; do you need a dose of painkiller?"

"I'd love one, but I doubt I _should_ for another two hours," Douglas grunted, leaning on his captain, who made a comfortably warm if slightly bony crutch. "Was that _all_ Carolyn had to say?"

"When is a single sentence _ever_ all Carolyn has to say?" Martin sighed. "No, she wanted to make sure you filed all the appropriate paperwork for your time off and that she and Arthur would be 'round to see you sometime tomorrow. Which is today, I suppose."

"Oh that will make things _so_ much better," Douglas groused. He gripped the doorway of the bathroom and motioned Martin to wait. "All right, I'll take care of matters in here. Where's Charlie?"

"Sofa," Martin mumbled. "I did offer to take her home but she insisted, and you know what's she's like."

"As stubborn as Carolyn, but nicer on the ears and eyes," Douglas agreed, closing the door. He took care of hygiene and washed his hands, splashing a little water on his face, and feeling the start of the day's stubble across his chin with a grimace.

There were a few aches other than his knee; his nose was still a little tender, as was his arse, but in general he wasn't too badly off, Douglas decided. He felt a little pang of gratitude that both Martin and Charlie had been around; had he been alone as he usually was it might have been a while until he could crawl his way back into the house and get help.

Being grounded was worrisome, true—he had some savings in the bank for the moment, but anything extended could get tricky, what with alimony and child support coming due very soon. Douglas hobbled out and immediately Martin slipped an arm around him again, not at all self-conscious about it, which was both surprising and kind. "All right, let's get you back to bed."

A thousand flippant replies rose in his thoughts, but Douglas bit them back, which wasn't easy. Instead he let Martin guide him back and when he was sitting on the edge of the bed he shook his head. "Grounded and replaced by Herc Shipwright of all people. What a humiliating development."

"Not replaced, not _ever_," Martin countered loyally. "Carolyn might be gruff but she's not heartless. Besides, Herc would never work for her on anything like a regular basis, not with their . . . _understanding_ going on."

"What a nauseating image," Douglas grinned. "You certainly know how to cheer a person."

**Martin—**

It seemed odd at first to head to Douglas' house instead of his own little garret, but after the first few days familiarity made it easier—that, and the joy of encountering Charlie there too. Initially Martin had worried about leaving her alone with Douglas; not because he was afraid of what Douglas might do, but what he might _say_ more than anything. He needn't have worried though; Douglas was good at keeping things hush-hush, and for that Martin was grateful.

Charlie's little beat-up Astra was at the kerb, and when he knocked, Charlie herself opened the door, grinning. "Welcome home darling. Rough day?"

Martin smirked back, his heart leaping in his chest. _Just a game; a playful mood, but still oh God how wonderful this would be if was real life . . ._ "Not too bad. How's our little invalid?"

"Cranky," Charlie sighed, her expression taking a slight downturn. "Apparently someone's not thrilled with being stuck at home all day."

"Mmm, I thought he would be," Martin commiserated. "I could bring him sushi if you think it would help."

"Might help," she nodded, then gave him a soft smile. "How was Glasgow?"

"All right." The trip with Herc had been just that; the other man was an excellent pilot and genial enough but Martin hadn't felt entirely comfortable around him, particularly since Carolyn had insisted on coming along as well. They hadn't said or done anything overt during the trip, yet the knowledge that the two of them were . . . keeping company, as his mother would have put it, was, well, off-putting in a sense.

Not that Martin had a problem with older people having a love life, not at all, it was simply that imagining _Carolyn_ having one was not anything he really wanted to consider.

He wondered if Arthur had issues with it.

"I've asked Douglas to look over some of the invoices for the canvas," Charlie continued, "so he's busy for the moment. I was going to run home and get a few things; want to come along?"

Martin did, and a short while later she pulled up the Astra outside her flat. He noted a Vauxhall Insignia pulling in behind them, and when Charlie saw it, she froze for a second.

"Damn," she muttered under her breath before turning to him. "Martin, behind us—that's Donovan."

Martin glanced in the rear-view mirror and tried not to flinch; the figure in the other car was built along the lines of a mahogany wardrobe. "Oh. Your, ah, bête noir, eh?"

"The noir-iest, yes. Listen, he'll try and suss you out, so . . . do you trust me?" Charlie asked earnestly.

"Of _course_ I trust you," Martin replied with a hint of indignation.

"Good. I want you to snog me," Charlie told him.

A surge of joyful alarm flared through Martin. "What?"

Charlie undid her seatbelt and leaned towards him. "He won't ask you too many questions if he thinks you're my boyfriend, Martin. Just—please?"

He blinked, drew in a breath and before he could panic, Martin slid towards Charlie, lifted her chin and kissed that lovely bloom of a mouth, dropping his own onto it lightly. Charlie's lips were not only warm, but amazingly soft, and Martin was unable to resist pressing harder against the plump sweetness of her raspberry gloss.

Martin's brain shorted, and while logical thought fried mid-circuit, base masculine urges won out; he gave a soft groan and unconsciously sought to deepen the kiss. Charlie melted against him, and the tiniest flick of her tongue—her tongue!—touched his, setting off fires all along his spine.

He couldn't have stopped his hands from gripping her shoulders and pulling her closer if he'd tried, and Martin wasn't _about_ to let go, not now—

The hard rap of heavy knuckles against the driver side window jolted him out of his pleasurable haze; Martin reluctantly pulled away from Charlie's lips and shot a hard glare at the man standing outside the car. It wasn't difficult to look annoyed, and he gave Charlie's shoulders a soft squeeze as she blinked.

"Company."

"Yeah? Oh, yeah—" she blushed and shifted away from him to turn to the door and lower the window.

"Charlie Sawyer as I live and breathe. I guess your neighbor was right about you stepping out," came a light voice.

"Donovan," Charlie muttered. "I don't suppose I have to guess what _you_ want."

"Now now, we can be civilized," the man chided, and leaned down to peer into the car. Martin saw that he was a broad-shouldered man in a fancy jumper. He waved a heavy hand. "Hi. I'm an old friend of Charlie's. Donovan Tating."

Martin gave him a sharp look and a nod, not bothering to offer his name. Not that it mattered; Donovan shifted his gaze back to Charlie almost immediately. "We need to talk."

"No we don't," Charlie sighed. "I'm not selling you the prop; not now, not ever."

"Be reasonable, love—I'm prepared to give you not only three times what you paid, but a limited partnership. Come on, that's more than generous for a mere hunk of wood and you know it," Donovan told her.

"Not interested," Charlie replied. "We're done, and if you keep pestering me I'll go to the police, Donovan."

"Pfft, no need to get shirty," he replied in a sour tone. "But you've got to see reason, Charlie—that prop's a risk now, being nearly a hundred years old. You'd be much better off with a repro. It's not like you _need_ the genuine article for your project." Donovan's tone had taken on a wheedling quality, and Martin had enough.

"The lady said no. Bugger off," Martin snapped, and leaned over to press the window button. The glass rose up, and Donovan was so startled that his fingers were nearly pinched before he yanked them away with a grimace of anger. Charlie gave him the bowfinger through the glass and he stalked off, leaving the two of them to break into nervous laughter.

"Did I or did I not just tell a man who could probably dislocate both my shoulders at the same time to bugger off?" Martin asked in a wondering tone.

"You did and you're my hero," Charlie assured him warmly. "Oh Martin that was, as Arthur would say, 'brilliant!"

He shot her a look, caught between blushing and chewing his lower lip, and when Charlie impulsively leaned in to kiss him once more the touch of her wide mouth on Martin's both soothed and thrilled him.

Hell, he hardly even _felt_ the strangulating bite of the seat belt sash across his chest.

"Charlie," Martin gulped when they drew apart, "We . . . I mean, I think we need to . . ."

"Talk," She nodded, eyes big. "I know. And we will of course. Right now I need to get my laptop and a change of clothes, but before I do . . . may I . . . may I have one kiss more?"

It was nearly twenty minutes before they got out of the car.


	8. Chapter 8

**Charlie-**

She hadn't planned on snogging Martin—well, not in quite this circumstance—but given how spectacular it was, Charlie wasn't about to complain. All she'd wanted to do was keep him from being questioned by Donovan, but the talented Captain Crieff had thrown her for a loop and then some with his utter deliciousness.

Good God could the man kiss! Charlie still felt woozy thinking about it, and if it wasn't for the fact that Douglas was expecting them back she might have invited Martin to continue their cuddle on the sofa of her flat. As it was she was all clumsy fingers and stammers as she pulled fresh clothes and stuffed them into a rucksack, then hurried out before temptation got the better of her common sense.

Of course Mrs. Marrow had been loitering in the hall, and those mean rheumy eyes of hers hadn't missed anything. "Dogging _right_ out front!" she screeched. "Do that again and I'll call the police you little _tramp!"_

"Oh do shut UP you pompous, judgmental stupid interfering old sack of bones!" Martin had roared back at her. "Just because no-one's kissed you since Harold MacMillan was PM doesn't give you the right to be queen royal bitch of Green Meadow Terrace!"

"Martin!" Charlie hissed, scandalized, impressed and on the verge of nervous giggles. "Stop, it's all right. We need to _go_-"

"Oh! Oh! How dare you! You, you _hooligan_! I bet you've never done an honest day's work a day of your shifty life!" Mrs. Marrow hissed. "You've got that _evil_ look about you, all . . . _gingery_!"

Charlie tugged on Martin's arm before he could say anything more, and when the two of them were safely in the Astra, they looked at each other and promptly burst out laughing.

The release felt marvelous, and as the car merged into traffic, Charlie took a deep breath, still grinning. "Oh la! I didn't realize we'd been made, nor that it would bring out the smartarse in you, Martin Crieff!"

Out of the corner of her eye she watched him scrub his face with one hand, his face pink. "Sorry," Martin sighed, still smiling a bit. "But _God_ your neighbor is of the most annoying harridans I've ever met. Carolyn's practically Julie Andrews compared to the screecher you're stuck with!"

"True," Charlie agreed, still smiling. "I think she's mental myself, so I try not to wind Mrs. Marrow up too much, but honestly, it's impossible to avoid her."

"God, I hope I didn't just get you evicted," Martin tensed. "You don't think she'll go to your landlord, do you?"

"Mr. Figueroa knows she's a busybody," Charlie reassured him, "and my rent's paid up, so it's all right."

The rest of the trip finished in easy quiet, and when they reached Douglas' house, Charlie pulled in, parked, and turned to look at Martin. He was watching her, his normally pale blue eyes much darker now, and she reached a hand to cup his cheek. "I need to talk to _both_ of you."

Charlie expected an objection; at the very least a sound of protest, but Martin managed a nod, and closed his eyes, leaning against her palm for a second before getting out of the car.

"There you are; I was on the verge of ringing you up. I've got coupons for . . . what's wrong?" Douglas asked, looking up at them from the sofa. Charlie set her rucksack down and motioned Martin to sit, and then stood before them both, feeling her panic just around her knees.

"All right," she began softly. "We need to talk. Douglas, I kissed Martin."

Douglas blinked, and shot Martin a look. Martin blushed.

"Well, I suppose-"

"No," Charlie interrupted him in a firm tone. "Don't. You see, I meant what I said, when I called you _both_ my boyfriends. Oh it was fun to rub that in Mrs. Marrow's face, but it's time to be honest. Here it is: I mean it. I want you both."

Nobody spoke, and Charlie felt the panic rise to her thighs. God, this was going to go pear-shaped and no mistake. Both of them looked completely gobsmacked, and not in a good way.

She rushed on, trying to keep her voice steady. "See, you're mates. You work together, you look out for each other, neither of you have anyone else half as close. I sussed that the first few times I met you, and I realized then that if I chose either one of you over the other, I'd be coming between two people who belong together."

"That's absurd!" Douglas finally protested. "Martin is my co-worker!"

"_And_ friend and the first person you can count on, even over your ex-wives or your boss," Charlie pointed out. "Since your accident I haven't seen a single outside friend or family member show up, Douglas. It's been Martin, Arthur, Carolyn and me."

He looked as if he wanted to say something, but couldn't; Charlie continued, looking at Martin. "I didn't say you liked each other _all_ the time, or get along like a house on fire. God, you're more like brothers I suppose—fighting and competing, but let some outsider make a threat against either of you and it's shoulder to shoulder. I _get_ that, truly. That's why it's got to be both of you, or neither."

She watched them, and the quick flash of emotion in their faces choked her up a bit. Douglas looked mutinous, sad and slightly resigned; Martin's face held a twisted sort of hopefulness alternating with bleakness. Charlie moved over to the coffee table and sat on it, facing them. She reached out, holding hands with them both.

"Of _course_ it's bizarre," she assured them. "Douglas, I know you want me to choose Martin because you want him to be happy. Martin, I know you're torn between wanting me to choose you, knowing Douglas is going to be hurt and resentful and trying to figure out how to share me. Well I'm not going to hurt anybody. I want you both. I want to snog both of you, and sleep with both of you. There IS no competition when it's all of us. I'm like . . . Gertie, I suppose. You both fly _her_, why not me?"

As she hoped, this made them both snicker. Douglas rolled his eyes and gave a deep sigh before speaking. "You've thought a great deal about this, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"So the _real_ decision is," he looked at Martin, "up to _us_, then is it? From the way you've presented your argument, it seems you've put the impetus back on Martin and myself."

"Yes," Charlie nodded. "I know you'll need time to talk about it, so I don't expect an answer right away. And if the choice is no . . . well I am a big girl. I can take it, and stay friends with you. Just wanted you to know that."

Privately she wasn't so sure about this last; although the three of them had only been socializing for a few months, Charlie knew how much she cared about both of them. If worst came to worst she'd manage a stiff upper lip and carry on.

"I'm _not_ having it off with Douglas!" Martin blurted. "I'm sorry, but I just don't think I can do that! I like _women_!"

"Sir wounds me," Douglas sniped, but his smile was faintly compassionate. "Though when it comes to that, I'm not exactly comfortable with the idea myself."

"Nobody said anything about you two having sex with each other," Charlie replied. "I was rather hoping it would be with _me_."

"So . . . no threesomes?" Douglas ventured, looking a bit red-faced but mischievous at the same time. "No ménage a trois?"

"I want a _relationship_ with the two of you," Charlie reminded him. "That's a bit more than the three of us in a bed. God I wish this was easier! You're both so bloody amazing, and in different ways! Douglas you're witty and a bit of a genius and so much kinder than you want anyone to know, and Martin you're probably one of the bravest men I've ever met, and utterly adorable to boot and God can you _kiss_ . . . I _can't_ choose, I don't _want_ to choose, I just want it to be Christmas and have you _both_. Is that so wrong?"

**Douglas—**

As a pilot, a smuggler, a con artist and a father, he'd had to face up to the unexpected with lightning speed. Douglas thought he was rather good at it, having practiced the 'assess and respond' technique most of his life, but Charlie's little speech had him a bit floored for the moment.

His brain was having a little trouble wrapping around the concept of sharing Charlie on every possible level with Martin Crieff.

Naturally the alpha male inside was insisting this was never going to happen, but the more immediate part of his thoughts were already examining the proposal and considering the pros and cons of it. Many of the pros were apparent: Young beautiful sexy intelligent woman already seriously attracted to him—Douglas could accept _this_ happily.

The cons were: sharing, and Martin.

Douglas had never been keen on sharing _anything_. Part of it had been ingrained by being an only child, and by growing up as a natural leader and bully. He knew himself well enough to acknowledge his past and move beyond it, but old habits died hard if at all, and Douglas knew that his own selfishness would be a major stumbling block should he accept this relationship.

And with _Martin_, no less. Oh in the last few years he'd come to respect his captain a bit more; Martin was developing a spine and a certain plucky comeback of his own, but he was still too uncertain of himself, still too prone to bluster rather than firm command. Martin however had youth on his side, damn him, and an undeniable cuteness factor that Douglas couldn't help envying slightly.

For a fraction of a second Douglas considered playing dirty and going into the thing with the express purpose of sabotaging Martin's chances. Charlie was certainly worth it, and given the ease with which Douglas routinely won the cheese tray, the desserts and nearly every other bet, it would be easy to pluck her away from Captain Crieff.

Or would it? In another fraction of a second Douglas reconsidered. Damn it, he _cared_ about _both_ Charlie and Martin. Despite a certain cynical exterior, Douglas found that within his well-hidden soul lay a fundamental truth: he did care. Martin couldn't help being Martin-like any more than Arthur could help being Arthur-like. Both of them needed protection and guidance and support that only he, Douglas, was patient enough to give.

And there was Charlie herself. She was bright and intuitive and Douglas knew that lying to her would lessen himself in her eyes. Despite the temptation, he found he couldn't bring himself to do that, which meant either walking away completely, or accepting this unusual arrangement.

Very well. He cleared his throat and cocked his head towards Martin. "Martin?"

Martin, predictably, blushed to the roots of his hair. "Stop it, Douglas-I'm only the captain when we're flying," he snapped. "This is a huge decision. Huge. And it's not just mine, no, no, it's all three of us, which is as odd a number as a relationship gets!"

"Would it help if I promised you I won't have sex with _you_?" Douglas murmured. He tried to keep a straight face, but Charlie was already biting back giggles.

"I'm not your type," Martin snapped back. "At least, I always _assumed_ that, but nothing's quite certain at the moment, is it? Look, do we have to decide right _now_?"

"No," Charlie smiled. Douglas loved her for that gentle reply, and squeezed her fingers lightly. He let go and rose up, reaching for his crutches as the atmosphere softened.

"In light of all this, I think tea's called for," Douglas rumbled. "And after that, the schedule for tomorrow. I've got a doctor's visit in the afternoon; what about you two?"

"Salon from ten until three and then out to Fitton for the evening shift," Charlie called to him as he made his way to the kitchen. "I can get away if you need a ride to the doctor's."

"No, I can take him," Martin offered. "I've got a quick pickup in the morning but nothing after that. Carolyn's got Gerti scheduled for maintenance tomorrow, and I think Arthur's cleaning the carpets as well."

"God save us from that orange-scented shampoo," came the grumble from the kitchen. "Do you remember the last time, Martin?"

"Vividly. I'll bring nose plugs."

"Martin and I ran into Donovan, by the way," Charlie offered up as she rose and made her way into the kitchen. "Out at my place."

Douglas shot her a sharp look, and then glanced to Martin, who looked grim as he rose and came over. "Really."

"Yes," Martin nodded. "He was, um . . . large."

"Oh?" Douglas picked up on the slight strain in the other man's voice.

"You should have _seen_ Martin in action," Charlie smiled. "Told him to bugger off and almost snipped Donovan's fingers with the car window. I don't think anyone's ever done that to him. It was amazing!"

Douglas waited until Charlie was busy with her tea and caught Martin's eye. He mouthed 'how big?' at him.

Martin mouthed back 'huge' and mimed something that looked menacing. Douglas pushed a mug of tea at him and took a moment to consider this new information.

Clearly he and Martin would talk later, when Charlie wasn't around, and while the relationship question would be foremost, the Donovan situation would need to be addressed as well.

-oo00oo-

Dinner consisted of a nice little pasta dish, something Douglas knew he could do with little effort and much reward. It felt rather nice to cook for more than one, and given how Martin tucked in, Douglas was pleased.

"This is really good; I had no idea you could cook!" Charlie marveled.

"You should taste his carp," Martin murmured dryly.

"Now now," Douglas chided through a grin, "Let's not tell tales out of school. Charlie, I took a look at those invoices and the fabric company charged you too much so I called them and talked to their accounting department. You'll be getting a refund in the next few days. Martin, if Gertie's up for maintenance you really should take your van out to Fitton and take advantage of fueling up."

"Apparently we're in a relationship already," Charlie mock-whispered to Martin. "Don't you think so, Baby Bear?"

Douglas glared at her, but it was impossible not to smirk. "I _heard_ that."

"Yes Papa Bear," Charlie replied. "I'm just finishing my porridge now."

"I'm not Baby Bear," Martin protested. "And certainly not Mama Bear!"

"You can be Gingerlocks, the chair-breaking bed-hopping heartbreaker," Douglas told him. "Certainly you've cleaned more than one plate already."

"I was hungry!"

"Which is good," Douglas nodded. "I hate seeing leftovers. There's something incredibly sad about the remnants of a good meal wrapped in foil and waiting to be eventually thrown out."

"I wouldn't know," Martin murmured.

After dinner they settled in to watch _Valiant, _all of them avoiding anything like a serious discussion, and halfway through, Douglas fell asleep, drifting off under the influence of a full stomach and his prescription. When he woke up a few hours later, the start-up menu for the movie was on the screen, and Charlie was curled up against him, dead to the world. Martin's head was in her lap and his legs were dangling off the end of the sofa, holes showing through his dark socks.

Douglas pursed his mouth to stop himself from chuckling at the familiar pile-up. Charlie had it right, he realized; the three of them were _already_ in a relationship. Now it was simply a matter of taking things further.


	9. Chapter 9

**Martin—**

The silence in the car was a new and perfect definition of 'awkward' as far as he was concerned. Douglas was looking as uncomfortable as he himself felt, and Martin suspected that their talk—THE talk—would happen after the appointment.

He wasn't sure even now of how he felt, even now. Charlie certainly hadn't made it easy; all Martin knew for sure was that every scenario that came to mind had serious drawbacks, and the biggest one was named Douglas.

Martin didn't hate the man. They'd had their share of squabbles and petty disagreements certainly, and after so many hours together on the flight deck both of them knew _exactly_ how to push each other's buttons, that was true. Douglas Richardson was pompous, cunning, bossy and infuriating. He was also brave, dependable, highly intelligent and generous too, and Martin understood exactly how much MJN depended on him.

When they'd first met, Martin envied Douglas, admired Douglas and had wanted to be like him. Now, steadied on by experience and understanding, Martin . . . appreciated him. That appreciation, however, didn't quite extend to sharing a lover—at least, Martin didn't think so. It was one thing to give over a pair of socks, or a couple of quid for the sandwich machine, but sharing Charlie—

And yet . . . and yet losing her was unthinkable too. Not now, after those kisses in the car, when Martin had been swept up in the toe-curling sweetness of her hibiscus-bloom mouth and shy tongue. He'd never fancied himself much of a snogger, but something about Charlie's warmth had given him the courage right along with a healthy surge of lust. It had been too damned long since Martin had kissed anyone, and even now he tingled at the memory.

"Martin, unless you intend to make me jump out, we _will_ need to park," Douglas interrupted his thoughts. Guiltily Martin pulled into a nearby space, avoiding his passenger's gaze. He carried the aluminum crutches around and held them out, then stepped back and waited as Douglas steadied himself on them.

"If anyone asks, I fought off three muggers," Douglas announced. It was forced, but Martin appreciated the attempt at humor.

"What, no ninjas armed with shuriken?"

"No, I defeated those _last_ time when they tried to ambush me in the shower," Douglas replied. "When you've got the burden of a double O rating it seems _every_ blackguard wants a go at you."

"If Arthur were here he'd suggest Imperial storm troopers riding polar bears," Martin sighed.

"True," Douglas nodded and made his way into the Medical Plaza lobby, "I fear that combination _might_ have a slight advantage over me. Look Martin, I appreciate you bringing me today and I know we need to . . . discuss some issues."

"To put it mildly," Martin nodded. "I'll just wait here until you're done."

"Very well," Douglas agreed, and he hobbled over to the reception window, speaking to the nurse there.

It was nearly an hour before the appointment was finished and the two of them were in the car once more. The day had gone cool and a scent of rain hung in the air as Martin drove. He wanted desperately to say something, but he wasn't at all sure exactly how to bring the subject up, and even the time he'd spent waiting for Douglas had been a futile exercise in trying to find the right opening. _So what about Charlie?_ had sounded stupid, as did _Listen, we're both sensible men._

Martin didn't feel at _all _sensible when it came to Charlie.

Douglas cleared his throat. Martin risked a glance at him and noted that his expression was almost . . . melancholy. It was downright odd for Douglas to look anything other than completely confident, and Martin bit his lip.

"Neutral territory," Douglas murmured finally. "Over there; that little park."

They found a picnic table under an oak and sat on opposite sides; Douglas set his small white prescription bag down, his hands on either side of it. Martin finally looked into his face and all the things he wanted to say died away as Douglas held up a hand.

"I know this will come as a terrible shock, Martin, but the truth is that I am _not_ a good person," Douglas began, quietly. "Actually, I think we both know that, even if I pretend otherwise, so I'm going to be exceedingly honest with you and admit that despite my long and exotic experience with sex, I've never actually been involved in an actual ménage a trois."

Martin laughed nervously. "Really? I was sure you'd have some sordid history involving twins, or a pair of geishas in some far-flung corner of the world."

"Regrettably, no, although there _was_ a time in St. Tropez . . . but I digress. The point is, this situation is novel even to _me."_

"There's a first,' Martin murmured without rancor. "Well it's not part of my repertoire either, and it certainly adds another layer of trepidation to everything. I mean how does this even _work_? It will be difficult enough to get intimate with Charlie without the added pressure of every move being compared to those of the Sky God!"

"That particular knife does cut _both_ ways," Douglas reminded him. "She's certainly a fan of your kissing technique, going by her enthusiasm."

"Kissing's amateur stuff," Martin countered gloomily. "Everyone's done it, and _most_ people are good at it."

"Forget _most_ people," Douglas replied. "The regular rules don't apply at the moment. What we need to decide is if we want this relationship on the terms Miss Sawyer has laid out."

Martin worked his jaw a little, feeling irritated and tense, fighting the urge to fidget. "Three amigos, or none."

"Or," Douglas added. "Two. At the risk of sounding incredibly noble, I think I should withdraw myself from consideration, and leave the field clear for you and Charlie to pursue your own happiness."

Martin felt a surge of elation immediately followed with suspicion and a tinge of concern. "What? You'd . . . concede? Why? What's your angle _now_?"

For a moment a bleak expression passed over the other man's face, and Martin blinked. Douglas generally didn't let people see anything beyond what he wanted to be seen, but the melancholy mood was plain as day. "Martin, I've been a fortunate man when it comes to love. I've had three marriages and several meaningful relationships in my lifetime, so my cup has indeed runneth over. Charlie is beautiful, intelligent and an amazing fit for you. Be grateful and just . . . take me at my word this time, all right?"

Martin studied him a long moment, noting the shadows under Douglas' eyes, and the thick silver of his hair. He shook his head slowly. "I can't. I've flown with you too long to take your first word for _anything_, Douglas. If this was about anything _other_ than Charlie I'd think you were having me on, trying to steer me in some other direction, but that's not it either, is it? What's the matter?"

For a second Douglas glared, drawing his dark brows down and locking gazes with Martin in a way that would have been intimidating only a year before. But Martin lifted his chin and waited, feeling the tension in his stomach tighten every so slightly.

He could keep the stand-off going; he'd toughened a _lot_ since joining MJN.

Finally Douglas swept one big hand to the white paper bag and tipped it over, letting the prescription bottles spill out. Martin noted the painkiller and the muscle relaxant . . . and in the jumble the smaller extra bottle, holding the little blue pills.

**Douglas—**

It only took a second. He knew exactly _when_ Martin recognized the medication by his widening gaze and startled twist of the lips. Douglas waited for the first jibe, steeling himself for it. It wasn't as if he didn't deserve to be mocked, not after so much innuendo about his sexual prowess over the years. Douglas kept his gaze on the other man, and when Martin looked up at him, his expression was a peculiar blend of confusion and denial.

"You're . . . joking."

"I only wish I was," Douglas sighed. "One of the drawbacks of getting older is that genetics and the excesses of youth do tend to catch up. Normally this is information I would _never_ share with you, but here and now it should give a reasonable explanation for my offer, I think."

"So this is all because you need, er, chemical assistance?" Martin was blushing now, and Douglas felt a sense of exasperation.

"While I appreciate your need for euphemism, the condition is 'erectile dysfunction' and yes, this is _precisely_ why I think you'd be a better match for Charlie. My days of exuberant _impulsive_ intimacy are a thing of the past. Oh the pills work of course, but it's a matter of planning and timing and dealing with all that is not the sort of relationship that a young and darling creature like Miss Sawyer probably wants on top of everything else," Douglas sighed. "I'm sure she'd _much_ rather say 'Martin shag me here and now on the washing machine' than 'Douglas darling did you take your little cobalt friend yet?' any day."

He watched Martin fight a laugh and Douglas grinned crookedly himself, glad that his wry confession could still make someone laugh. Martin snorted a bit, and then managed to look contrite.

"God I'm sorry, I shouldn't have laughed, but the washing machines at _my_ place are out on the back porch and completely exposed; we'd be arrested for public indecency!"

"Good to know you zeroed in on the _important_ part of my comment," Douglas dryly replied. "You're not taking my noble sacrifice with the awe and gratitude I'd rather hoped for."

"Well of course not," Martin shot back. "So you take medication; lots of men do. It's not anything to be ashamed of anymore in this day and age."

"It's not exactly something to shout from the rooftops either," Douglas murmured, picking up the bottle. "Nor is it something I want Charlie to know. This is between us, Martin, and I want to keep it that way."

"If you insist on bowing out, she'll want to know why," came the warning. "You know her as well as _I_ do, Douglas—Charlie doesn't just accept things she's told. And she's made it pretty clear this is a package deal."

"I think we can convince her otherwise," Douglas murmured. He shook the bottle lightly, and his voice softened as he continued speaking. "When . . . when my . . . lift-off malfunctions first started, I was beyond embarrassed. Utterly mortified was more the case. Helena . . . she was very understanding. She was the one who urged me to go in and talk to the doctors. I thought I was the luckiest man in the world to have a wife who accepted my situation."

He risked a look at Martin, who was staring at the bottle, and continued. "And for about a year I was, really. She swore up and down that her involvement with the Tai Chi instructor had _nothing_ to do with my . . . prescription."

"Douglas," Martin murmured quietly, but Douglas kept speaking.

"I wanted to believe her. By God, I did, but the problem with having both a reputation and an ego is that sometimes they play merry hell with your pride. Oh that was rather good; you may want to write that down."

"Douuuglass," Martin repeated, his own discomfort evident. "This isn't how I want to win! And anyway it doesn't matter because lift-off or no, I'd bet my four stripes that you've still got _hundreds_ of ways to make women happy. You've probably got whole sex manuals memorized and thousands of hours logged for various exotic techniques!"

The imagery was too much for Douglas Richardson and he burst out into a deep, surprised laugh. "_Memorized_?"

"Memorized," Martin echoed firmly. "You're perfectly capable of taking Charlie to the moon with or _without_ a . . . plane."

Douglas stared at the man across the picnic table, amused, touched and altogether warmed by Martin's unexpected support. He hadn't counted on that at all, particularly in this situation. It pained Douglas to acknowledge that if their situations were reversed, he himself might not be as kind. At least, not in earlier years, but in the last one he'd come to know and like Martin much more.

"Well that's true," he responded quietly as he set the bottle down. "But still . . . I think she'd be better off with you."

Martin cocked his head. "You keep saying that, but the thing is, you _do_ want her, don't you? I mean, if I was utterly out of the picture, you'd be bringing her orchids and taking her out to posh sushi bars right this minute, wouldn't you?"

Douglas nodded before he could catch himself, and he cursed mentally at Martin's slight flinch.

"I'm sorry Martin, but yes, I probably would, even with all the strikes against the relationship."

"Well there you go; we're right back on the footing we were on before then," Martin pointed out with a grumble. "Look, if you don't want to do this on Charlie's terms then _you'll_ have to be the one to tell her. Me, I'm, I'm . . . willing to give it a go. Not that I think it will be easy, or normal, but not a lot's ever been _either_ of those in my life so why should this be any different, right?"

"You'd rather _share_ her than lose her."

"Yes," Martin muttered. "Yes I would. I'm not tall and suave and full of funny stories or know the right wine to have with fish, but I'm dependable and loyal and good about remembering birthdays."

Douglas gave a slow sigh, feeling himself smile a bit. "You'd be willing to share her with _me_; that says a good _bit_ about loyalty, Martin. It also speaks to some naivety, but I think we can gloss over that. You're serious about this, are you?"

"Yes," Martin gulped a bit. "If I've _got_ to share Charlie, I suppose it's best if it's with someone who appreciates her as much as I do and who will treat her well."

Douglas blinked a little at the compliment. "I _am _. . . touched. Thank you, Martin. Very well. Since both of us want Charlie to be happy, I suppose I could be persuaded to take a minor role in this turn of affairs. She hasn't given us much in the way of particulars though, and I'm not exactly sure how we go about . . . divvying her up?"

Martin threw his head back and laughed. "Joint custody I suppose. Split up the week do you think or make some sort of wall chart like we've got in the portacabin?"

Douglas had to laugh at that image, and for a long moment the pair of them chuckled as the tension between them lightened. When the humour of the moment had tapered off, and both of them were still smirking a bit, Martin began putting the pill bottles back into the bag. He pushed it towards Douglas.

"Thank you," Douglas murmured, taking it from him. "Well, from what I recall Miss Sawyer saying, all _we_ needed to do was decide whether or not we'd accept the terms of the relationship; she didn't say anything about the logistics. I think we can safely put _that_ particular issue back on _her_."

"Yes," Martin nodded, running a hand through his curly hair. "I agree. And the, er . . . ?" he waved towards the bag.

Douglas gave a shrug. "Well, as the adverts go; when the time is right . . . ."

"Arthur would think that means you'll take baths in separate tubs," Martin finished, and they both began laughing again.

Douglas was sure anyone passing by would have thought them a pair of complete loons, but he also found he didn't care much.

"We shall see," he finally wheezed, still smiling as he reached for his crutches. "At the moment, just getting back into the car is strenuous enough for me. And Martin . . . thank you."

The smile he got in return was both reassuring and comforting.


	10. Chapter 10

**Charlie—**

She was just finishing up with a particularly complicated tint job and blinking from the fumes when the little bell over the shop door chimed. Charlie looked over and the sight of Douglas and Martin coming in made her stomach flip-flop. She patted Mrs. Stevens on the shoulder, murmuring, "Now let me set the timer and you can help yourself to any of the magazines." Charlie gave the little kitchen device a quick crank and made her way to the door, hugging each man in turn, looking from one face to the other, concerned.

"The appointment . . . you're all _right_ Douglas, aren't you?"

"Yes," he assured her quietly, his smile small but warm. "I'm doing fine my dear. Martin's been a perfect mother hen to me most of the morning."

"Sheepdog more like," Martin huffed. "In charge of one big, stubborn-"

"Ram," Douglas finished smoothly. "We've just stopped by to take you to lunch, if you've got the time."

"Give me half an hour to finish with Mrs. Stevens and I'm all yours," Charlie replied, feeling a rush of relief. They'd both looked rather serious when they'd stepped in.

It took nearly fifty minutes to satisfy Mrs. Stevens, but once the woman left Charlie closed up her station, waved goodbye to Edwin and linked arms with both Martin and Douglas.

And it felt right, it truly did. Charlie gave a happy sigh and allowed herself to be escorted to the Lexus, feeling a bit like a princess. "Where are we going?"

"There's a little hole in the wall I know of that does good crêpes," Douglas replied.

"Crêpes?" Martin questioned, looking a little wary.

"Crêpes. It's on me," Douglas told him. "You need the carbohydrates, _Sir_."

That settled, they arrived at Josette's, a charming little French café, and found a little booth near the back. Charlie waited, butterflies in her stomach as she settled between both men, glad of their proximity but nervous all the same. They both looked apprehensive as well; Martin was downright twitchy.

A bored teenager ambled over and handed out laminated menus. "Special-al-ee-tay today is the ham 'n cheese. I'll be back."

"We'll try to contain our trembling anticipation," Douglas replied dryly. Both Martin and Charlie snickered at that, and the atmosphere lightened considerably.

Charlie pretended to look at the menu. "So, do we take the suggestion offered by our hipster garçon there, or go for something a little more français?"

"French sounds good to me," Martin offered and promptly went bright red. On the other side of Charlie, Douglas looked like the Cheshire cat.

"Naughty Captain Crieff," he murmured, making Charlie giggle once more.

"Douglas, behave," she ordered. "I won't let you give Martin crêpe about his choices."

"Mademoiselle wounds me to the quick," he murmured without malice. Charlie arched an eyebrow at him, her expression fond.

"Mademoiselle?"

"Certainly. If Sir is Sir, then it stands to reason that Mademoiselle is Mademoiselle, n'est-ce pas?"

"Douglas," Martin sighed. "You're being deliberately . . . Gallic."

"Well Sir did mention liking French-"

Charlie rolled her eyes and at the same time slipped her hands under the table, resting one on each man's thigh. Both Douglas and Martin shut up immediately, and she made a mental note to use the move again at some point.

"Shhhhhh," she told them. "Lunch. I'd like the crêpe du fromage and maybe some sparkling water while you both tell me what it is you want to tell me."

She didn't miss how the two of them looked at each other, and it confirmed her guess that they'd reached some sort of agreement. Given that neither man looked particularly grim, Charlie let herself hope.

Once the waiter had returned and taken their orders—crepes for Douglas and Charlie, croque-monsieur for Martin—Charlie waited.

"It's a go," Martin finally murmured, a familiar red flush brightening his face. "Douglas and I discussed it, and we've agreed that given the way we both feel about you that . . . well . . . yes."

She beamed, looking upward at the ceiling, feeling a glorious burst of joy within her, along with a quick and honest pang of fear. Quelling it, Charlie turned to give Martin a warm peck on the cheek, then shifted her gaze to Douglas.

He gave a deep and dramatic sigh. "How I get talked into these things I'll never know. It must be my hopelessly romantic nature."

Charlie kissed him as well, rubbing her nose against his slightly bristly cheek. "Thank you," she murmured.

He said nothing, but his gaze was sweet and Charlie wriggled a little in her seat.

"So . . ." Martin muttered after a moment. "How . . . does this work?"

"Work?" Charlie echoed.

"I think Martin is interested in the schedule," Douglas drawled in an undertone. "Not that he's alone in that."

"Ohh," Charlie sighed. "Well, I thought after lunch we'd all go back to your place, Douglas, and have a bit of a lie-down. Nothing kinky mind; just a bit of sleep before I head off to Fitton for my shift."

"A nap?" Martin sounded vaguely miffed. "That's a bit . . . underwhelming."

"Douglas needs the rest, and you do too," Charlie pointed out wryly. "I dunno about the pair of you but I didn't very much last night worrying about your answers so I could use a bit of a snooze."

"Fair enough," Douglas agreed. He looked as if he would say more, but Charlie saw him stiffen for a second and followed his gaze where she noticed Carolyn Knapp-Shappey step into the restaurant followed by a dapper older man.

"Hey _chief_," Douglas murmured.

"Got it," Martin replied, sounding tense. Charlie wasn't sure what that was all about, but she felt herself trying very hard not to be noticed. For a moment it seemed to work, and the couple was escorted to a table just cater-corner from the three of them.

"Oh God," Martin moaned. "Absolutely the _last_ person I want to see right now!"

"Well we can't go; our food's about to arrive," Charlie pointed out in a whisper. "There's no reason to think she'll even talk to us, is there?."

"Mademoiselle clearly doesn't know the president of MJN Air nearly as well as _we_ do," Douglas sighed.

**Douglas—**

It only took a few minutes to realize though, that Carolyn was studiously avoiding them. It dawned on Douglas that this turn of events had to be directly related to the presence of Herc Shipwright, who seemed vastly amused by the clear lines being drawn in the restaurant. He beamed over Carolyn's shoulder and Douglas gave him a nod, then looked to Martin, who was torn between looking up and studying the food now sitting in front of him.

"Carolyn is on a _date_," he announced with an air of satisfaction.

Martin looked skeptical. "Really? I didn't think that was possible."

"Nor did I, but apparently miracles do occur. Eat up, me hearties; this lunch comes with a floor show."

"What, you're planning on _watching_ them?" Charlie sounded both amused and slightly scandalized.

"Indeed I do; any chance to turn the tables is a good day in my book. How about you, Martin?"

"It IS rather like a wreck," he agreed. "There's something wrong about watching, but looking away is nearly impossible. Is he . . . holding Carolyn's _hand_?"

"Normally that move would get it bitten off," Douglas nodded. "The poor brave fool."

"Stop it you two!" Charlie spluttered, trying not to laugh. "You're terrible!"

"Yes but it's so . . . so . . . against the natural order," Martin pointed out. "Carolyn and romance just don't go together. It's like sardines and chocolate!"

"Another Arthur recipe. Oh look, I think an attempt at footsie just came into play . . ."

"That had to hurt," Charlie winced. "Enough—eat up, gentlemen and let's leave them to the same, all right?"

They followed her direction, but Douglas kept an eye on the courtship happening at the table diagonal from them, and was pleased to see that Carolyn wasn't having much success at ignoring them, not by the set of her shoulders. He felt vaguely sorry for her in an abstract way; ever since the Limerick trip Douglas found that he had a bit more sympathy for Carolyn.

Not that he'd ever tell her of course, but having met her ex as well put together a picture of a life with some very bleak spots to it. If Herc Shipwright could add some color to the canvas of Carolyn Knapp-Shappey's existence, then who was he, Douglas Richardson, do deny her that?

It was only after lunch and the drive home that he found himself slightly nervous. The distraction of Carolyn's appearance had kept Douglas from considering that he was about to sleep with two people in a purely platonic way; something he'd never done before and didn't expect would actually happen now. But after making sure he'd had his pain meds, Charlie gave a cheerful yawn and led the way into the bedroom, leaving Douglas to shoot Martin a wry look before following her in.

Thank God the bed was going to be big enough at least. He and Helena had gotten a king-sized one only a few years ago and it was one of the things she'd left with him after the divorce. Douglas knew he was a big man, and having the freedom to stretch out was a blessing. But now . . .

"Come on; I'm taking the middle," Charlie called, and dear God she was sliding out of her jeans and shoes. Douglas took in a breath as he watched her crawl over the duvet and slip under it, a warm body in shirt and panties.

"Oh God," Martin sighed, and the sound of it was enough to galvanize him. Douglas moved to his side of the bed—the right side—and sat, slipping off his loafers.

"If you steal the covers, I'm never inviting you back," he called over his shoulder to Charlie. "Snoring I can take; blanket theft is unacceptable."

"Understood. Martin, hurry up," Charlie called. Douglas concentrated on slipping his watch off before flipping up the duvet and stretching himself out under it, brace and all. The comfort of the mattress and the warmth of the body next to his felt welcoming and good. He closed his eyes, taking all the sensations in.

Douglas heard Martin fumbling a bit, and then felt the mattress joggle as the third body tumbled in. For the next few moments everyone squirmed to get comfortable in the awkwardness of proximity. Charlie was smothering a giggle, and Douglas gave a sigh.

"This isn't a teenage girl's sleepover," he reminded the other two in his most put-upon voice. "Settle down, please. Some of us don't appreciate having our ankle jostled."

"I can't help it," Martin squeaked. "I'm a bit . . . ticklish. And I'm not used to having er, company."

"Just think of me as a pillow," Charlie murmured. "With strategic lumps."

Douglas laughed, and after a moment both Martin and Charlie joined in, helplessly. Any time one of them began to settle down all it took was a single look across the bed to have the laughter erupt anew.

"M-M-My ribs hurt," Martin chuffed, his voice much looser now. "God. Pillow!"

"Shhhh," Charlie murmured, and Douglas felt her spoon up against his side. "Go to sleep."

They quieted, and Douglas realized that he actually was a bit sleepy, and wonderfully relaxed as well. Charlie felt good pressed up against his side, a comforting presence that soothed in ways that went beyond the physical. He slipped an arm around her shoulders, savoring the warmth of her skin, and turned his head to whisper to her. "Thank you."

"Thank _you_," Charlie whispered back, smiling. "Sleeeeep."

Douglas wasn't sure exactly when he drifted off, aided by the pain meds and the warmth of the bedroom, but he did, dimly aware of Martin's soft little kitten snores starting up on the other side of the mattress.


	11. Chapter 11

**Martin—**

He was having trouble breathing; the little wheezes puffing out of him sounded slightly comical, but Martin barely paid any attention to them because Charlie Sawyer was stretched out on his attic futon and dear GOD she was naked. Naked. As in no clothing whatsoever.

And she looked . . . glorious.

Charlie was on her stomach in sort of a Sphinx pose, forearms out, legs crossed at the ankles, her golden brown ringlets crowning her face in sort of a dandelion puff way, and Martin was aware that he should say something but nothing came to mind except a deeply grateful 'THANK YOU!' that he couldn't quite get out.

"Surprise," Charlie laughed. "Here's the deal, Martin. You may touch. I'm not allowed to, but _you_ are."

"What?" He finally managed, eyes watering now because he didn't want to blink and miss anything. "How . . . ?"

"One of your roommates let me in as they were heading out," Charlie replied lightly. "The whole house is empty, and anyway we're all the way up here so we've got plenty of privacy. I'm nervous you know, but I thought it would be good if we just . . . touched. Had some skin time."

"I thought you were at the air field," Martin finally managed, moving closer.

_Needing_ to move closer.

"Mis-read the schedule."

"Ah," was all he could manage. Charlie looked up at him, and Martin realized she was trembling ever so slightly. He hesitantly knelt down and eased one hip onto the edge of the futon, feeling embarrassed by the thin duvet and the cramped space of the attic, but over it all mesmerized by the way the sunlight through the little window made Charlie's skin glow.

"You've got freckles too," Martin observed absently, his gaze sweeping along her spine and up to her shoulders.

"Yes. It _is_ possible to be black and have freckles as well," Charlie admitted with a grin. "Most of mine are along my back and shoulders. Are yours?"

"Mine are . . . everywhere," Martin sighed. "Most of them fade if I keep out of the sun, but if I spend even _one_ afternoon on a bright day, out they pop." As he spoke, Martin took in the sight of the sweet apple cheeks of Charlie's ass and felt a fresh surge of desire thickening his shaft.

This couldn't be happening. Not here in his ratty little garret, not with the whole afternoon in quiet and solitude. Things like this didn't happen to _him_. God her legs were lovely; au lait, muscled and petite—

"Martin," she rolled to look at him, her expression shy and a little embarrassed. "Do you . . . _want_ to touch me? Is this too much too soon? Honestly, I'm rotten at figuring these things out-"

"I do," he blurted, and reached out, letting his fingers skitter along her shoulder; under his touch her skin was warm silk. Martin drew in a breath and slid his palm down the length of her arm, then along her waist and up the rounded bone curve of her hip, the stroke slow and wondering. "Sleek," he sighed. "My God, you're like a Learjet forty just off the assembly line!"

Charlie laughed sweetly, pushing herself up on her hands to rub her nose with his. "Thank you," she breathed, and kissed him.

After that it was so easy. Martin kissed her again, stretching out alongside Charlie on the lumpy futon, tasting a hint of coffee and raspberry on her lips, breathing in the clean feminine tang of her skin. He cupped a hand along one of her cheekbones and drew her mouth to his again, caught between urgency and a desire to draw out this glorious moment.

Martin rolled onto his back and playfully pulled at one of her frizzy curls, watching it spring back in a slow bounce. Charlie gave him a quizzical look, and slid a hand of her own up under his sweatshirt, her touch gliding along his skin and leaving tingles. He gasped. "I thought you said you weren't allowed to touch!"

"Sorry," she murmured, not sounding the least bit. "I was just helping you take this off."

"W-what? Wait, Charlie . . ."

"Skin time," she repeated, giving him a crooked smile.

Martin blinked, and whatever hesitations he had dissolved in that sweet moment. He rolled his shoulders up and clawed his sweatshirt off, feeling a bit like a peeled shrimp but not caring much as Charlie helped him toss the garment aside.

"Ooooh," came her little sigh. "You've been hiding all this definition!"

"Lots of lifting," Martin glanced down. "Bit pale though . . ."

Charlie 'pffffted' and slithered over him; the minute her warmer darker skin kissed his, Martin gave a shuddery sigh of pleasure, his eyes closing even as his hands came up to stroke her back.

They didn't talk much. They didn't need to; Martin found himself too caught up in touching. Under his palms Charlie's skin was like satin—smooth and warm. He kept stroking her spine, letting his hands glide down to the rounded rise of her ass, finally cupping those chubby cheeks and glorying in the fit of them in his palms.

Charlie smirked down into his face. "I've wanted you to do that for _ages_!"

"Oddly enough, me too," Martin snickered. "And speaking of hiding definition, my God you've got a _fantastic_ bum."

"Thank you," she preened. "Wonders of walking." Charlie bent to kiss him again, and Martin tasted her tongue once more, feeling the heat press of her breasts against his chest. Long sweet moments stretched out, building intently. Still trapped in denim, his shaft throbbed urgently against her thigh, and Martin tried to keep his breathing steady, but he was so hard now that he ached.

"Charlie darling," Martin began, his voice strangled, "I just think I ought to let you know . . . I . . . I might, might . . . you know . . . ."

"Mmmm? Sounds good to me," she sighed, and shifted her kisses to the side of his neck. Martin moaned, hips rocking up against hers as he clutched her ass more tightly. Heat, friction, the overwhelming glory of Charlie's lips and gentle weight of her across his hips-

Too much, in the very best way possible. Martin groaned and ground against her, shudders wracking his frame as he climaxed, wetness seeping through the fly of his jeans.

Moments later a wave of horrified shame rushed through him, and froze, wishing the futon would open into a direct pit to hell, sucking him down where he belonged. He'd done it now; destroyed whatever chance he'd had of happiness, going off like some spotty idiot teenager . . .

"Kiss me," Charlie whispered, still rocking against him, her eyes half-closed. Numb, Martin looked up at her, and realized a moment later that she was . . . rubbing against him still, moving with quickening little rolls of her hips. He spasmodically clutched her bottom again, his breathing hitching now.

"Charlie my God I'm so sorry, so, so sorry . . ." he babbled, "I-I-I—"

"Kiss . . ." she raggedly demanded, and he raised his head, lips pressing her hers. As he did so, Martin felt her body tense, the sleek muscles under his palms clenching as Charlie arched against him, a moan slipping from her mouth into his as she shivered.

Stunned, Martin realized she'd just had an orgasm herself. Charlie gave a deep sigh and slumped onto him, her arms sliding around his shoulders. He wasn't sure what to say or do, but she nuzzled her way to his ear and whispered, "Wonderful, darling. I think we _both_ needed that."

"Thank you," he blurted, adding, "I really _am_ sorry about . . . well, about the, ah, unexpected take-off there."

"Shhhh," Charlie murmured, shifting to his side, but keeping her arms around him. "It's all good. We'll get you cleaned up in a minute, but a bit of a rest first, eh?"

Martin blinked a little, feeling an unexpected prickle of tears threatening. "You're not . . . angry?" She had _every_ right to be, he knew, and yet here she was-

"Certainly not!" came her warm chuckle. "We both had a lovely time—at least I know I did!"

In reply to that, Martin kissed her, starting at the tip of her nose, moving to her smiling mouth, trying desperately to show how much her words meant to him.

**Charlie—**

A naked Martin Crieff was wonderful, she decided. Charlie knew perfectly well how the captain of MJN Air always belittled himself, and that he didn't much like the way he looked, but she couldn't stop herself from ogling him as Martin reached in to turn on the shower.

The man was lean, with long well-defined muscles evident all along his back. Martin's freckles were heaviest across his shoulders and upper back, much the way her own were, but others were dusted along his thighs and forearms, sprinkled like cinnamon around the golden-red blonde of his body hair. The curls along his chest were sparse, mostly a patch between his pectorals, but a definite trail ran down his stomach, circled his flat little navel and thickened as it reached his groin, blending in with the heavier springier auburn thatch around his masculinity.

Charlie moved closer and lightly goosed him; Martin jumped and shot her a mock-warning look that she grinned at. "None of that; I'm not going to have us slipping on the soap and ending up like Douglas!"

"All right," she conceded. "That would be embarrassing to explain, yes. Is it warm enough?"

"Just about," Martin assured her, his own shy peeks making her blush a bit. The bathroom was small and chilly, even with the rag rug and space heater. He motioned for her to come over and helped her in, flashing a quick smile at her. Charlie purred at the feel of the hot water, and moved deeper in to make room for him.

"Come on, come on!"

He stepped in shyly, and Charlie pulled the curtain closed, giggling at the way the multicolored fish printed on it filtered the light across their bodies. The water had darkened Martin's hair and cascaded in glittery streams down his shoulders; Charlie gave a little squeal of delight as she reached for the soap.

"Still bashful?" she asked, feeling a little giddy herself. Martin tried not to grin, and hollowed his cheeks to prevent it, but it flashed out anyway.

"Be fair! I'm standing in hot water with the woman of my dreams, about to clean off the traces of my, erm, enthusiasm and you want to know if I'm still bashful?"

She worked the soap up between her hands and moved closer. "Yes. You've got a fantastic body Martin, and I really would like to get to know it better."

He looked gobsmacked at that, but by now Charlie knew him well enough to simply kiss the confusion out of him. Martin relaxed and drew her body up against his, the water sluicing all around and over them in a warm caress.

It was so much easier to _show_ how she felt than to talk about it, Charlie thought, and the wonderful thing was that Martin was pretty much the same way. For long, steamy minutes, his hands trailed over her skin constantly, exploring and caressing in an ongoing massage she was becoming addicted to. Carefully she soaped up his chest and shoulders, nuzzling his chin.

They fit together so _well_, Charlie realized happily, cuddling into him. Martin wasn't as tall as Douglas, but his arms were strong and she felt her knees weaken when he nibbled her earlobe. Hastily she tucked the soap back onto the wall niche and pulled Martin closer, aware of the heat growing between her hips, of the insistent nudge of his cock against her thigh.

God it was wonderful. She'd wanted this for ages, easily within a month of meeting both him and Douglas. Not that Charlie had admitted it even to herself back then, but it was impossible to resist Martin's amazing eyes and that boyish grin. Charlie curled a caress around the shaft prodding against her and was rewarded when he groaned.

"Charlie . . ." he breathed, "Darling . . ."

She thought about dropping to her knees, but Martin—sweet, adorable Martin did first, startling her. Charlie backed up against the tiled wall as he slid his hands to her hips, pinning her there against the coldness. Carefully he hunched down, working his shoulders between her knees, encouraging her to drape a leg over one. Pangs of desire shot through Charlie's belly; arrows straight down between her legs, and she reached one hand out to Martin's shoulder to brace herself.

Martin nuzzled the soft fur between her legs, oblivious of the water hitting his back. She felt his lips teasing her inner thighs, felt his long fingers stroking the inside creases of her hips. Charlie gave a helpless little giggle. "Martin, you don't have to—"

She looked down into his upturned face, and his wet curls clung to his skull, making him look like Michelangelo's David for a moment. "Want to," Martin rumbled softly. "_Need_ to."

That tone of longing and love drove the breath from her, and Charlie let her head fall back against the tile. A moment later she felt Martin's mouth press against her cleft, felt his tongue slide between the petals of her sex. Desire surged through her and she crooned loudly, lost in the unstoppable pleasure of his sweet kisses.

Charlie tried to rock her hips, but his hands kept her upright and against the wall. Martin was driving her mad; he kissed and nibbled, licked and sucked in unpredictable patterns that had her gasping and clutching his shoulder. He seemed to understand though, and began to focus on the little bud between her thighs, circling it, lapping it steadily.

That was all it took. Charlie felt herself begin to tense, to growl in little chuffs, all of her senses overloading as her orgasm surged through her. She reached out, and blindly snagged the shower curtain, pulling half of it down; to his credit Martin didn't even flinch, and gently kept his lips pressed against her until Charlie slumped and stopped shuddering.

She slid down the wet wall, laughing, reaching to cup Martin's face in her hands. "Oh God, you are a-MA-zing, Captain Crieff!"

He wore a bright and happy smile on his wet face. "And you taste divine, Miss Sawyer. Utterly divine—oh, where did that come from?" Martin pushed the fluttering shower curtain off his hip and shot her a puzzled look.

Charlie laughed, throwing her head back. "Casualty of romance!" She crawled forward and stroked his thick erection. "Back to your garret; I think we need to take care of this throttle of yours properly this time."

"God yes," came his delighted groan. "Yes, yes, yes."


	12. Chapter 12

**Douglas—**

He didn't have to be told anything; Douglas could read people like the emotional traffic signs they were, and judging by the languorous sway of Charlie's hips, he knew that matters between her and Martin had resulted in a satisfactory encounter.

A highly satisfactory encounter, apparently. She slipped her arms around him in a welcoming hug, and Douglas hesitated a moment before returning Charlie's squeeze. "I take it Sir took you to dizzying heights of ecstasy then?"

"Martin was wonderful," she conceded. "Thank you for letting me love him first. You're an incredible romantic, Douglas, you know that, right?"

"I have my moments," he sighed, fighting back a pang of jealous insecurity. Charlie looked up at him, cupping his cheeks in her hands.

"I want to make you happy this evening," she told him in a quiet voice. "_You_. The things Douglas Richardson likes are unique and nothing would please me more right now than to find out what they are. A little help, yeah?"

He slid his hands to her hips, letting his big palms cup them as he smiled down at her. "Oh Charlie-"

She laid a finger on his lips. "Stopping you right there. You're about to give me that 'I'm too old for you and what are we doing here anyway' speech and I'm having none of it. Martin's having none of it. He's flying to Denmark, you and I are here, and that's that, darling. So would you like dinner and a movie? A massage or a bath perhaps? Maybe a game of strip Cluedo?"

Douglas took a deep and shaky breath. "Darling," he began, putting all of his courage forward. "Before anything else, I need to tell you something about myself. Something rather . . . important."

Her eyes searched his, and Douglas noted the worry in them, the concern. "Yes?"

"I . . ." He hesitated for just a moment, then gritted his teeth, letting the words sift through them. "I have ED."

The pause was quiet and thoughtful; Charlie blinked once and held his gaze with a degree of forthrightness so characteristic of her. Douglas felt as if the moment were a chasm that might widen at any moment, and that no amount of reaching from either side might be enough to close it until she said, "Yes, I know."

"You . . ."

"In your bathroom cabinet; you have a prescription. Spotted it _ages_ ago when I was looking for the paracetamol," Charlie murmured.

"Yes," Douglas replied, taken aback by her unconcern. He'd worked himself up for this moment, and having this emotional mountain not even register as a molehill left him a bit on the back foot. "Yes," he repeated. "It's under treatment that is. I just thought you ought to know, since it tends to require a bit of . . . coordination."

Her cool hand stroked his flushed cheek. "Show me what I should do."

This part was embarrassing but freeing as well; Douglas brought out the prescription and fiddled with the bottle, telling Charlie in a few quick sentences how it all worked. She didn't look at the tablets at all, just kept her gaze on him, her expression gentle. When he was done, Douglas tried to seem nonchalant, but Charlie took the bottle from him and set it down.

"All right then. Now you never did give me an answer about tonight and what sounded good."

Douglas looked at her, feeling tender and foolish and completely off-balance yet again. It was becoming a habit around Charlie, and yet he didn't mind it as much as he might have with anyone else. "All of it sounds good, but I think a bath to soak my leg might be best."

Charlie grinned. "Oooh, I like that, I do."

The water was searingly hot, just the way he liked it, although Douglas barely noticed it. Charlie was undressing him, and her pleased expression had him caught between embarrassment and wry amusement of his own. "I suppose you _must_ be fond of ancient hulks if you spend all your free time between a Sopwith and yours truly."

"Neither of you are ancient by any means," Charlie countered, "and I definitely like what I see—oooh, bit furry here, yes, and such a broad chest! Oh you're definitely Papa Bear, Douglas, yes indeed."

He tried to look annoyed. "I'll _never_ accept that as a term of endearment you know." To counter her protest, Douglas slipped his hands under her sweater and moved to unhook her bra; a maneuver he'd mastered decades ago. Charlie momentarily looked startled, and blinked up at him.

"Want company do you?"

"I believe in the buddy system," Douglas informed her. "Baths can be such treacherous places."

He was rewarded with a giggle and then the glorious sight of Charlie leaning out of his hug, peeling off her top, dropping it with seductive charm. "Oh by all means then; wouldn't want you feeling at sixes and sevens."

"Quite right," Douglas croaked, trying to regain a sense of composure, but by God it was difficult with Charlie's glorious mocha curves on display. She pressed her chest against his, but that move barely obstructed the view, and Douglas felt a welcome surge of interest stir between his hips as warmth seeped from her skin to his. He gazed down at her, his face flushing even as he managed a smile. "My God you're a lovely woman, Charlie Sawyer."

She caught a breath and her eyes twinkled. "Oh _you,_" came her embarrassed little reply. "Come on; into the water before it gets cold."

It should have been embarrassing, Douglas thought, with him half-hard and hardly the trim specimen of manhood these days, but Charlie helped him off with his knee brace and guided him into the tub, her matter-of-fact attitude calm and sweet. Once he was in, the heat did feel terrific on his leg, and the ground level view of Charlie climbing in had him purring with pleasure.

"Like what you see?" she teased, settling in at the other end of the tub, her legs sliding outside of his under the froth of the bubbles.

"More than you will _ever_ know."

That made her laugh, and Douglas leaned back to flick water at her, feeling a lightness in his chest that left him breathless, but in a good way. This was something he'd missed; this intimate companionship. He reached under the water for one of Charlie's feet and began to massage it gently.

"What's a girl like you doing in a tub like this?" Douglas murmured.

"Mmmmm, well at the moment, turning to putty if you keep doing that," Charlie confessed. "Oh that's so very, very nice, darling . . ."

"I have my uses," Douglas assured her. "Do you have any . . . preferences for this evening?"

She leaned back, avoiding the tap, and flashed a smile at him. "What_ever_ makes you happy will make me happy, Douglas. Just sleeping in your arms is going to be wonderful; anything else you choose prior to that will be cherries on the top."

"As Mademoiselle wishes," he murmured, grateful and determined to show Charlie exactly how much.

**Martin—**

He kept himself busy, checking gauges and dials, calculating fuel rates and distances in his head, all to block out thoughts of Douglas and Charlie, but they kept creeping back insidiously, making Martin impatient.

"Are you all right, Skip?" Arthur asked, setting the cheese tray down with his usual flourish. "Are you worried about Douglas?"

"Oh, no, I'm fine. Not thinking about Douglas, he couldn't be _further_ from my thoughts."

"Oh that's good, because I'm sure he's fine what with Charlie looking after him."

That was precisely the wrong thing to say and Martin snapped. "Oh thank you, Arthur for that _brilliant_ observation, yes I'm thrilled that _Douglas_ gets to sit back on his backside and have his every wish catered to whilst _I_ get to haul some business berk to Copenhagen for God's sake!"

"Skip," Arthur fluttered a bit, startled by this outburst, "I'm sure I've got it wrong, but you don't actually sound thrilled. In fact, you sound pretty cheesed off."

"Well I am," Martin admitted sourly. "Listen Arthur, it's . . . complicated, all right? Don't mind me, I don't mean to take it out on you. Have some of the tray."

"Oh wow, thanks, Skip!" Arthur enthused, scooping up one of the little foil-wrapped bits and peeling it. "You know," he murmured through a mouthful of processed Cheddar, "Charlie is a bit like Snoopadoop, if you think about it."

Martin shot a glance over at Arthur. "Arthur," he began, striving for patience, but didn't get any further.

"No honestly," came the earnest reply. "Mum and me, we're not at all alike, really, but we both love some of the same things—flying of course, and chocolate and Snoopadoop. Oh mum calls her some sharpish names sometimes but always in a gentle voice, and Snoopadoop understands that. I get to feed her and play fetch with her and mum walks her and lets her curl up at the foot of the bed. So she's not really just mine and not really just Mum's you know. She's sort of the third part of our family, really. Except she doesn't have a house key or have to change the loo paper."

"Er, yes," Martin murmured after a second. Trying to take in Arthur's explanations generally needed a bit of a time delay to process them and this was no exception. "But Charlie's a woman."

"Well yeah," Arthur grinned. "Still, she's your Snoopadoop. Yours and Douglas' I mean."

"Arthur—"

"Although sometimes it's hard to share," Arthur sighed. "When Mum bought this dried-out pig's ear thing, Snoopadoop went completely mental over it, and stayed by Mum all day chewing it to bits. I wanted to take her for a walk and she wouldn't go, and I felt pretty bad about that. Snoopadoop that is, not Mum. She walks all the time."

"Arthur, let me point out that kind as you're trying to be, Charlie is _not_ like Snoopadoop!"

"Oh sure she is! She's pretty and makes you and Douglas happy and loves you lots, I can tell. She's even got fluffy hair like Snoopadoop, although it's not the same color and probably doesn't have it all over-"

"Arthur!" Martin interjected, caught between indignation and amusement. "Let's just stop the comparison right there, shall we?"

"Yeah, okay," Arthur agreed, "but it's true you know. Charlie loves you and Douglas together and that's all right then, because it works."

Martin opened his mouth to protest yet again and shut it with a snap when he realized that for all his dimwitted appearance, Arthur did have the heart of the matter right. "You . . . _know_ that she loves us both?"

"Of course I do, and it's brilliant!" Arthur beamed. "With _three_ you always have someone around to talk to, or cuddle or share with, right? And when two of you get fed up with each other, the other one's there to medium you back together."

"I think you mean mediate," Martin offered, but he grinned a little. "Well . . . she _has _been a bit of a . . . moderating influence."

"Exactly!" Arthur enthused. "Sometimes I talk to Snoopadoop about Mum, and sometimes I talk to Mum about Snoopadoop. Either way I feel loads better and I know they both love me so it just makes me _really_ happy."

Martin blinked a little and gave the cheese tray a nudge towards Arthur. "Have some baby Swiss."

"Thanks Skip!"

After Arthur had wandered out again Martin reconsidered the discussion and found himself smirking a bit. Charlie wouldn't appreciate the comparison, but in his unique way Arthur had found the right analogy once again. Charlie WAS a bit like the cockapoo in her loving generosity, her vivacious nature and her ability to live in the moment—characteristics Martin knew he didn't have himself.

Part of it came down to sharing, he knew. Having been the oldest in his family meant Martin was all too familiar with portioning out the good things in life with other people. He'd had to make room for his brother Simon, and split desserts with his sister Caitlyn, and through it all learn some patience in terms of what _he_ wanted.

He wasn't good with fear, and the biggest fear of the moment was that Douglas was . . . well . . . better. Douglas had always intimated he was, and having all this time to brood didn't help, and—

The satcom bleeped, and Martin picked it up. "Golf Echo Romeo Tango India."

"Martin, it's me," he heard Douglas murmur. "I just wanted to say . . . thank you."

"Er, yes?" Martin blurted uncertainly.

"Yes. And Charlie said to tell you to fly safe, we'll be waiting for you when you get back."

"I . . . will," Martin replied softly, feeling touched. "Get some sleep."

"Will do . . . Sir."

Martin hung up the receiver, blinked a little, and looked out through the dark sky, a gentle sense of peace seeping through him.

He smiled.


	13. Chapter 13

**Charlie—**

Someone had been in the apartment. She sensed it in some low-level way even as she slipped her key in the lock, and when Charlie pushed the door open she gave a hurt little gasp at the destruction.

Someone—_Donovan_, her mind supplied immediately—had made a huge mess of her tiny living room, ripping it apart in a vindictive way that spoke of petty rage. Charlie stepped through the sodden mess of her carpet and gazed around, feeling the helpless wash of fear slowly begin to morph into despair.

And anger.

She sighed and pulled out her mobile, debating on whether to call the police first or start taking photos. Both were sensible choices give the devastation, but even as her fingers closed on the mobile she hesitated, feeling a different sort of fear rise up. The police would ask questions, and that would lead to all sorts of assumptions and insinuations that Charlie didn't want made. Bad enough Mrs. Marrow thought she was some sort of tart; having the police interviewing Martin and Douglas could easily uproot the tender little relationship the three of them were cultivating.

Charlie growled a little to herself, feeling protective of her men. She absently stepped around a shattered vase and held up her phone, taking quick shots as she slowly turned around.

Thank God the prop wasn't here and hadn't been for the last few weeks. Donovan had probably realized that early on and had wrecked her apartment out of spite, Charlie sensed. Douglas had convinced her to keep it locked up in the walk-in safe at Fitton and she knew it was there now with an MJN ticket secured to the box. Only she, Martin and Douglas had the authority to remove it, and since the Sopwith was only a third built right now it would be a while until it was needed.

"God I suppose I'll _have_ to call the police," Charlie griped to herself, picking up a framed photo and staring at the cracked glass that now webbed her mother and father. "Shit." Talking to the police would mean getting her landlord involved, and filing reports and a lot of undue attention. The thought of Mrs. Marrow watching and grinning was enough to make Charlie feel even queasier, and she leaned against the tiny counter in the kitchen, fighting back tears.

It wasn't fair. It wasn't bloody fair. The cost of cleaning up this mess would put another serious dent in her savings, and she couldn't really do anything else until she'd dealt with this. Charlie thought about her agenda for the day: laundry, shopping and a quick trip to the hardware store for a wrench—and scratched it all. It also meant cancelling dinner at Douglas' as well. Charlie tried to think of a good excuse that wouldn't sound suspicious.

After ringing the police and being assured they would send someone 'round, Charlie dialed Martin's number, her eyes closing as it rang.

"Charlie . . ." came Martin's breathlessly adorable voice. "Hello!"

"Hey there," she replied, grinning despite her nerves. "Um, listen, I'm going to have to take a rain check on dinner, yeah?"

"Oh?" the disappointment in his tone was apparent even over the phone. "Everything all right?"

"Yes, of course," she lied, looking around the shambles of her apartment and forcing herself to sound calm. "It's just . . . I've got some visitors coming in, from out of town and I really should spend time with them, you know?"

"Yes, of course," Martin reassured her. "Douglas and I understand, completely." His tone held only a tiny hint of uncertainty now, and she smiled to herself briefly.

"Thank you darling. I'll ah, see you tomorrow then," Charlie told him and listened to him whisper his love to her before hanging up. It gave her courage to face the mess ahead, and steeling herself, she went to go see Mr. Figueroa.

The police arrived forty minutes later and Charlie could tell from their eyes that they initially thought it was a domestic dispute. She laid out her history with Donovan Tate and provided the follow-up numbers and references as several of her neighbors loitered in the hall trying to peek in. The strident comments of Mrs. Marrow didn't help either, even though Mr. Figueroa tried to keep her away. Charlie pushed the urge to cry behind a wall of professionalism and managed well enough until one of the police—the older woman looked at her and asked, "So do you have someone you can stay with tonight, Miss?"

"She certainly _does_, the tramp!" Mrs. Marrow called out. "Ask her about those two men she sleeps over with! I bet they're the ones who did this! Got proper pissed at having to share and had it out!"

"You shut your _gob_, Myra Marrow or I'll toss you out on your flabby arse right _now_!" Mr. Figueroa hissed. "Charlie Sawyer's a good girl and just because you're down hard on anyone darker than yourself doesn't give you the right to make up wild stories about her!"

He herded Mrs. Marrow back to her apartment, ignoring her squawking as several of the neighbors nodded. Charlie bit her lip to keep the tears back when a few of them came over and patted her arm.

"Myra's mental," one of them murmured apologetically. "You're a proper good 'un; take no mind 'o her."

"Miss?" The policewoman murmured, "A place to stay?"

Charlie sniffed. "I . . ." she began, but a familiar voice cut in from the foyer.

"She does," came Douglas' firm voice. "Charlie are you all right?"

"Douglas . . ." Charlie murmured weakly, feeling a rush of fear as he limped forward with his cane, his expression grim. "Wh-what are you doing here?"

"We had a dinner date," he reminded her, his gaze taking in the damaged apartment. "Good lord, what happened here?"

"Break-in," One of the pensioners volunteered, and Charlie stepped forward to Douglas.

"I didn't want you or Martin to worry!" she murmured in a low voice. "He was supposed to _call_ you! I told him . . . oh God, I _lied _to him!"

"Sir-" the younger policeman looked at him. "You are . . .?"

"Douglas Richardson. I'm Miss Sawyer's close friend," Douglas responded smoothly. "My mobile's been off most of the day. Charlie, I want the truth now—what happened?"

"I think Donovan broke in," she admitted.

"Looking for the prop? That bastard," Douglas growled. "Well you're coming home with me and I won't hear you say no, darling. Officers is there anything more you need?"

Fifteen minutes later, after finishing the paperwork and hastily packing a suitcase, Charlie found herself standing next to Douglas next to the car, crying as he held her.

"Why? Why couldn't he just take _no_ for an answer?" Charlie spluttered. "And Martin's going to be furious that I lied, and _all_ my models are broken, and I can't afford to miss any more days at Hip Clips . . ."

**Douglas—**

He let her sob a while longer while he rubbed her back soothingly and then gave Charlie a squeeze as spoke quietly, his lips near her ear. "Shhhhh. It's all right, Charlie. You can stay with me as long as you need to. In fact I rather insist. Martin's waiting for us back there now and we need to tell him what's happened."

Charlie looked up, her eyes wet, her lower lip trembling. "He'll be so pissed off," she murmured, but Douglas shook his head.

"Oh he might be at first, but only because he loves you. I'm sure our captain is perfectly aware of what pride can make one do, especially in dire circumstances. The important thing is to get past it and figure out what we're going to do next."

He kept his voice calm even though underneath it all Douglas held his fury in check. Not against Charlie of course, but for the idiotic bastard who'd savaged the apartment. There were ways to deal with a thug of that caliber, and Douglas knew a great many of them, all nasty. It wasn't something he was proud of per se, but Douglas never felt he was the noble sort anyway, and in this case revenge would be justified.

"You're not going to do anything _stupid_, are you?" Charlie started, looking up at him with big eyes. "Douglas, no—promise me right here and now that you're not going to confront Donovan!"

"Very well darling. I promise you I'm not going to confront him," Douglas repeated, pleased at her choice of words.

Confront? No. The last thing he wanted was to give the bastard any sort of warning. Luckily Douglas knew he could live within the phrasing of his promise and still do enough damage at the right moment. Tucking this thought away he herded Charlie into the Lexus and climbed in behind the wheel, wincing slightly as his knee protested. He waved away Charlie's concerned glance.

"The doctor's cleared me for driving as long as the brace is on. Flying too in fact—Martin and I will be heading to Lisbon day after tomorrow."

"Yeah?" Charlie sniffed, smiling a bit. "Who are you taking?"

"A little old grande dame is shopping for a villa I believe. She barely speaks a word of English, so Arthur can chatter away to her for the whole of the flight and not cause too much trouble." Douglas kept the conversation light, knowing full-well it was what Charlie needed at the moment. She was calming down a bit now, not ready yet to talk about the situation but definitely less stressed than before, and when they reached the house he reached over to take her hand after they parked.

"Darling I think the best thing would be to be honest with Martin. He adores you and if you simply tell him the truth he'll understand more than you realize. Our Captain Crieff may be a bit of a stuffed shirt at times but he's also a man in love."

These words made Charlie sniffle again, and she took a deep breath. "Really? He won't . . . get mad?"

"I can't promise you that," Douglas admitted, "But I don't think it will last once he knows the facts. Come on, let's get this over with."

They climbed out of the car and walked into the house, were the scent of beef stew lingered in the hallway. A cheery voice called out from the kitchen. "Hallo? Douglas, is that you? Listen, Charlie isn't going to make it tonight—"

"Yes I am," she called back, her voice wavery. Douglas gave her a little encouraging push and she moved across the living room towards the kitchen. Martin came out to meet her, his pleased expression shifting to concern as he took in her slumped shoulders and puffy eyes. Douglas held back, knowing full well that Charlie needed to do this herself.

"I . . . there was a break-in at my flat," she told Martin quietly. "I'm pretty sure it was Donovan, and I didn't want you or Douglas to worry about it so . . . I lied. When I talked to you on the phone that is."

Douglas watched Martin's expression shift through a cycle of panic and concern, hints of anger coming through as his cheeks gained color and he reached out for Charlie to take her two hands.

"Charlie," he choked, and looked over her shoulder at Douglas. "Why? What happened, exactly?"

She explained in a few quavery sentences and Martin wrapped his arms around her tightly, murmuring soothing words to her as they stood together. Douglas slipped by them to the kitchen, breathing in the mouthwatering smell, pleased with himself that he was a being able to predict Martin's reaction so well. Sometimes it paid off to be observant, it truly did. For the next few minutes Douglas busied himself in the kitchen, giving the couple in the living room time to sort matters out.

Martin's voice grew louder only once, and then things got quiet. When he peeked out the two of them were still hugging with a good deal of kissing going on as well, and even as a spike of jealousy pierced him, Douglas found himself aroused at the sight too.

He'd known about Charlie's charms certainly, all those lovely curves and those luscious lips, but Martin? When did the image of him snogging bring on a sense of breathlessness? Something about that lean form engaged in such an intimate action sent a pleasant little frisson down Douglas' spine and he coughed loudly to drive it away.

Not the time to examine this, he chided himself and smiled when both Charlie and Martin broke off to look at him, each slightly dazed.

"Now that you're through with the appetizers and have made up so nicely, I believe it's time for the main course?"

Martin scrubbed his red face with one hand. "Um yes, yes of course. Thank you Douglas."

"I'm not hungry," Charlie murmured, but Douglas shot her a playful frown.

"After that helping of baisers ala Crieff I'm not surprised, but you do need to keep your strength up. Besides, if you don't have some of the stew then it will end up as leftovers for the next two days while we're in Portugal."

Martin rolled his eyes, but he also slipped an arm around Charlie and the three of them moved to the nook in the kitchen, settling in at the table. A single look between the men made it clear they wouldn't talk further about the break-in at the moment, and the rest of the evening's conversation settled on more mundane matters. Douglas glanced over at the calendar and blinked as he noted the upcoming weekend and sighed.

"Much as I hate to complicate matters, I'm going to have a visitor on Saturday, and you probably should meet her, Charlie."

"Emily?" both Martin and Charlie asked in a duet, grinning at their synchronicity. Douglas gave a slightly startled nod.

"Indeed. It's my weekend with her and I think it's time the two of you were introduced."

"Really?" Charlie asked, looking a little nervous.

"Yes, I think so," Douglas nodded. "Although you may find it difficult to talk to her."

Charlie shot Douglas a puzzled look and he reached out to pat her hand, his own expression soft. "Emily has severe hearing loss."

"Oh," Charlie murmured, her gaze on him fully.

Douglas gave a small shrug. "Despite it all it certainly hasn't slowed her down or stopped her from being the adorable little hellion she is. Martin can attest to that."

"Emily's . . . lively," he confirmed, sighing. "I hope you like to have tea parties and play hopscotch. Naturally she and Arthur get along like a house on fire."

Charlie giggled at that, and Douglas smiled. "Time enough to make plans in the morning. Martin, I hope you'll consider staying tonight; Charlie could use the comfort and I would feel better having, well, all my chicks in one nest."

"Papa bear," Charlie murmured playfully, and Martin snorted, rubbing a hand over his face.

"Yes well given the events of tonight I . . . accept your invitation."


	14. Chapter 14

**Martin—**

It seemed both odd and comforting to slip under the covers of Douglas' bed and slide against Charlie. This was now the fourth time he'd slept here, and Martin found himself still feeling the twin emotions of apprehension and delight. On the practical level this was much better than his futon in the attic and the added warmth of another pair of bodies was heavenly. On the salacious level, the press of Charlie's curves against him kept him half-erect most of the time anyway, and if he was completely honest, the knowledge that Douglas was close by held an odd attraction as well.

Martin wasn't gay, but he didn't deny that Douglas was a handsome man in his own right. Certainly he had plenty of qualities to envy starting with a terrific head of hair that wasn't curly and red. Then there were his long eyelashes and dangerous smirk . . . aaaaand it all was starting to sound as if he had a crush on the man, Martin thought after an annoyed moment. He didn't, of course—Douglas was a know-it-all berk and a pain in the arse most of the time which countered his better qualities whenever one of them showed through.

So the fact that he'd gone from sleeping alone in a drafty garret to being situated comfortably in a large bed with a beautiful woman he adored off-set the uncomfortable awareness that there was a third party in said bed and that third party did have some attractive qualities. Martin could deal with that just fine, as long as he didn't let himself think about the beautiful woman he loved and the third party at the same time, because that brought to mind images that left him a bit . . . fidgety.

_Damn it_, Martin mentally sighed. Difficult enough to manage the day-to-day living around Douglas, but picturing him making love to Charlie was supposed to be annoying and frustrating, not . . . arousing. Charlie was lovely and vibrant and Martin loved the taste of her lush mouth, the soft tickle of her corkscrew curls. Those were things he'd thought about and fantasized playing with and those fantasies _hadn't_ included sharing them with anyone else.

And yet . . . and yet the thought of Douglas' hands along Charlie's bare spine made Martin squirm a bit. It wasn't about seeing his First Officer's vaunted technique so much as it was about possibly watching Douglas make Charlie _happy._

This, Martin knew, was kinky. Definitely not normal for a red-blooded man to be stirred by and yet he was realizing that it was true. He loved Charlie, loved being able to make her squeak and go breathless, the taste of her hot skin was possibly the most luscious flavor on the earth. All of the goodness of the woman was right there so why, why couldn't he savor his good luck and not feel compelled to share and watch?

A dilemma, he brooded, completely unprepared for the warm hand that slithered across his stomach and brought him out of his reverie. Martin fought a grin as those fingers stroked his belly; he scooted closer to Charlie.

"You should be sleeping," she whispered, her lips lingering close to his ear.

"So should you," came Martin's quiet retort. "Especially given the day you've had."

"Mmmm, well I'm warm and safe right now," Charlie assured him, "Not sleepy."

Martin was aware of her hand moving south down his body and his enthusiasm surged forth, nudging against her questing fingers like a puppy eager for petting. It was embarrassing how quickly his body responded to her, and Martin made a little agonized sound deep in his throat, but Charlie merely shifted closer and pressed her lips against his temple, her words soft. "Shhhhh."

It dawned on Martin just as her grip encircled him that she was intent on caressing, and he stiffened all the more, aware of their precarious situation. Being in bed with Charlie was thrilling; knowing that Douglas was less than an arm's reach away was starting to put matters into overdrive. Martin gritted his teeth to stop himself from hyperventilating (among other things) and then Charlie kissed the underside of his chin.

"We can be quiet," she whispered. "Please?"

Martin nodded, aware that he was now truly caught between heat and humiliation. Charlie straddled him, reaching down to guide his shaft between her thighs and as she did so Martin risked a glance over at Douglas's broad back. There was no movement from him, no indication he was even awake. A second later Charlie slowly impaled herself on his cock and it took every ounce of control Martin had not to bray with pleasure at the sensation. As it was, Charlie herself muffled a moan against her own shoulder, then leaned down to nuzzle his face, her wild hair fluffing everywhere.

"Need this," she murmured to him. "Oh darling . . ."

They rocked together slowly, drawing out the intimacy in slow deep strokes. Martin slid his hands around the bouncy perfection of Charlie's ass, let his grip glide over the rounded curves of her hips and ultimately slid his hands along the insides of her thighs, his thumbs gliding down to the slick heat where her body joined with his. She struggled not to make noise, and leaning forward, her glorious chest bobbled against his face.

Heat. Friction. Joy. Martin felt Charlie tense around him, her body faltering out of rhythm as it shook with pleasure under his thrusts and caresses. The sensation was too much and before she'd finished he joined her, the searing surge of animal lust rocketing through his system in thrilling pulses.

Charlie slumped on top of him, her breathing settling down again, a soft purr against his ear. "_Thank_ you darling."

"Mmmm, very welcome darling." He cast a cautious look across the mattress. "I hope we didn't wake—"

"No, no," Douglas replied over his shoulder. "I've been awake for _ages_, actually."

"Oh GOD," Martin moaned, humiliation flushing his entire body. He tensed, but Charlie kissed his chin and then spoke up, her voice quavering but her words firm.

"Douglas, that was very cruel of you," she chided. "We would have stopped, if you'd objected."

"Precisely," came the low reply. "I can't say the three of us won't have an awkward moment or two in the morning, but on the whole it was remarkably fascinating. Even uplifting, to a certain degree."

Martin froze, his mind trying to grasp meaning from Douglas' words but physical lassitude was settling in despite himself; the warm weight of Charlie had a calming effect that way.

"Douglas," he began, and couldn't think of what else to say.

"Go to _sleep_, Martin," came the calm reply. "Lord knows you should be slipping into a coma by this point."

"Douglas," he heard Charlie begin, but Douglas gave a sigh.

"Not tonight, darling," he murmured. "But thank you. Just—curl around me, and Martin can curl around you and we'll_ all_ head back to the land of Nod, all right?"

It seemed the safest course of action, even if it felt a bit cowardly, and Martin obediently did as directed, slipping an arm around Charlie's bare waist and burying his nose in the crook of her neck, letting his body slowly drift off. Fatigue won out over fretting and in the end he slept.

**Charlie—**

She should have known, but that reckless need to make love had overridden her common sense. Charlie understood herself, knew that after the fury and fear of the break-in that the best comfort in the world would be to lose herself in Martin or Douglas' arms.

It hadn't been unexpected. Charlie knew that Douglas, ever the keen observer had probably smelt the pheromones that had lingered between her and Martin all through dinner and she certainly didn't put it past him to orchestrate the evening to their logical event. The man was after all, a romantic, and prone to lovely gestures.

Still, Charlie thought as she slithered down and off the mattress, yawning in the early morning light, it was going to make the day uncomfortable unless she opened up the dialog over a decent breakfast.

Fortunately Douglas had a well-stocked larder and she spent the next forty minutes making fruit salad and waffles, keeping her hands busy as she thought about what she was going to say. Charlie made both tea and coffee, and let the scents do their work, amused when Douglas limped out of the bedroom first, tousled and wrapped up in his bathrobe. She came over to him and kissed him lightly, aware of the dark stubble along his cheeks. "Good morning, darling."

"Good morning," Douglas murmured back, his nose twitching. "I must say, the quality of the meals around here has gone up tremendously. Waffles!"

"Waffles. You're not going to give Martin a difficult time this morning are you?" Charlie wanted to know as she studied his face.

"You're bribing me," came the slightly hurt reply.

"I'm not, I'm . . . trying to make breakfast a pleasant experience," Charlie soothed, brushing his cheek with her fingers. "About last night . . ."

"Yes, it _was_ rather novel, wasn't it? Rather like listening the soundtrack to an erotic film in stereo," Douglas teased her lightly. "You've no idea how tempted I was to roll over and watch, but knowing Sir that would have put him right off his game and even _I'm_ not that much of a bastard."

"You're not a bastard in any sense," Charlie shot back, her beautiful mouth twisting in a wry grin. "Bit of a perv maybe, and not the _only_ one around here, but that's acceptable."

"By my count there are _three_ of us who fit that last description," Douglas told her confidently. "And regarding last night—" He gave her one of those rare bittersweet smiles he had; the ones that threatened to break her heart. "It definitely managed to stir but not shake the procreational limb to put it some foreplay I _might_ have been able to perform, but it wasn't the time or place, darling. Last night was for you and Martin."

Charlie rolled her eyes. "Stop being noble, Douglas—it's not natural for you! I want to apologize for, well, putting you in such an awkward situation. Honestly, I thought you were asleep, and I knew Martin was awake, and I felt . . ."

"In need of some comfort," Douglas finished. "Charlie, it's all right. It's more than all right—one of the very reasons I had us all together was so that you would feel . . . safe."

She very nearly teared up again; Douglas has that rare ability touch her heart by his very sweetness. Charlie wrapped her arms around him tightly, breathed in the warm masculine scent along his neck. Douglas hugged her back tightly, and she felt him give a deep sigh, his hands sliding along her back under the tee-shirt.

"I _love_ you, Douglas Richardson," Charlie whispered. "You are wonderful."

"I love _you_," he replied, "and I wish I was. I'm not, but I do have my moments."

And at that moment Martin slunk out, looking half-sheepish and half defiant in blindingly loud plaid boxer shorts. Charlie pursed her mouth at him and Douglas turned, arching an eyebrow at him.

"I'm _not_ embarrassed," he told them, his face bright red. "I've thought about it and frankly I've decided that I am _not_, in fact embarrassed, no matter what you think."

"Of course not," Douglas agreed in a mild tone. "Nor should you be."

Charlie bit her lips to stop from laughing as Martin did a double-take, his expression shifting from rebellious to slightly confused. "All right then. Good."

"Yes," Douglas agreed. "You were. I was listening carefully and I definitely can vouch that you have a real _knack_ for shagging, Martin."

"Douglas!" Charlie chided him.

"No I mean it," Douglas countered. "You could have a second career if you put your—well not your _mind_ to it, but still-"

Martin marched up to Douglas and locked eyes with him; Charlie tensed, wondering if matters were going to come to blows and if she'd have to separate the two of them.

"If I didn't know what I _do_ know about you I'd take offense at that, Douglas, but being as I do know, I'm not going to," Martin announced. "Furthermore, the important thing is that Charlie is happy, right?"

"Absolutely," Douglas agreed with equanimity. "That being said, our relationship demands that we continue to engage in the spirit of masculine and competitive one upsmanship that defines us, don't you think?"

"It's too early to think," Martin muttered and yawned. "Look Douglas, I'm sorry we woke you, and but I'm _not_ sorry about making love with Charlie and I never will be."

"Good," Douglas nodded. "The same goes for me of course, although my encounters will probably be a bit more . . . scheduled."

"Hallo? Can we not talk _around_ the lover in question here?" Charlie complained. "I _was_ a part of the events of last night you know."

They both looked at her, expressions softening and Charlie had to laugh; Douglas and Martin looked like a pair of naughty schoolboys caught playing tug of war over a dead badger. She put her hands on her hips and smirked at the two of them. "Look you two—this is all very . . . unconventional, and we're bound to have some bumps along the way, but for the moment I suggest we have breakfast and think about the day, yes?"

"Right, as always, darling," Douglas sighed, and Martin gave her a quick, grateful kiss as he headed for the tea.


	15. Chapter 15

**Douglas—**

It was halfway through into the two-hour trip before Martin stopped blushing. Douglas listened to him stammer about sunburn to Arthur and waited patiently as they went through the pre-flight protocols in terse one or two word responses and took off to Lisbon.

Portugal was generally an easy hop and Carolyn had even managed to book passengers for the return flight for the next day, so as work went the stress on his knee was minimal. Douglas made it a point not to look at his captain, but from the corner of his eye he noted the pre-conversation restlessness making Martin's shoulders start to twitch. He made a mental bet with himself that the younger man would break in the next five minutes.

"Douglas, about last night," Martin began a scant three minutes later. "I want to say I'm sorry for . . . for violating your bed."

This was new. Douglas felt his eyebrow rise even as he fought back his amusement. He turned to look at Martin. "I'm not sure what happened could be constituted as violation, not as the term is defined. Granted it's a king-sized bed, so I suppose we _might_ consider it an uprising, though."

"Douglas!" came the frustrated response.

"The only thing overthrown might have been the covers—"

"Douglas!"

"Honestly Martin, that bed isn't sacred," he murmured, his tone shifting from the facetious to the more serious. "It's just a mattress and box spring, not some holy altar. Yes, Helena and I slept there, but that doesn't make it particularly important. I've slept in _lots_ of other beds."

"Yes," Martin agreed dryly. "I've heard. Still—I just . . . I didn't mean to . . ."

"Didn't _mean_ to make love to Charlie? I hope you _did_—she seemed to think it was intentional and you didn't sound particularly confused—" Douglas pointed out playfully. It was vastly entertaining to see Martin twist in the wind of this apology, it truly was.

"No, that's not what I meant! What I _meant_ was that I wouldn't have done it if I'd known you were awake because I would never want to hurt your feelings or make you feel unwanted!" Martin blurted out finally.

Douglas found himself speechless for a moment; definitely a rare event around Martin. He drew in a breath and turned to face his captain, trying to compose his thoughts, and that was precisely when Arthur popped in, bright-eyed and puppy-eager. "Hey Skip, Douglas. Mum wants to know how much longer until we land."

"About half an hour," Douglas managed to sound his usual blasé self.

"Oh right. Thanks," Arthur burbled, relentlessly cheerful as ever. "And mum says to tell you you're booked at the Velasco."

"I thought the Velasco had been condemned," Martin managed.

"Wishful thinking," Douglas commiserated, waiting until Arthur slipped away from the flight deck before adding, "That's kind of you Martin but last night wasn't a problem. I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

It was so like Martin to fret, and Douglas bit back an impatient sigh, knowing full well that if he responded with_, in fact, listening to the two of you was amazingly erotic_ would probably send the younger man into a full-blown panic attack. "Perfectly."

"Because it won't happen again," Martin blustered on, not meeting his eyes. "I promise."

"Let's not be hasty," Douglas pretended to be focused on one of the altimeters. "Beds _are_ for sleeping and love-making, Martin."

"Yes but generally for an even number," came the fret.

"Oh contraire," Douglas murmured. "There are any number of erotic films that promote an agenda of 'the more, the merrier,' as I recall."

"Douglas! This is exactly why our situation is impossible—_this_."

"This what?" Douglas wanted to know, but Martin clamped his mouth shut and refused to expand his cryptic outburst all through the landing and deportation. It wasn't until they had landed and arrived for their booking-in at the Velasco that he spoke again, this time in a fearful croak.

"What?"

"One room," the clerk replied in a monotone. "Booking from Snappy-Chappy for one—I have it right here."

"Snappy yes, chappy, no," Douglas replied, adding. "You see before you two people, duas pessoas, sim?"

"I _do_ speak English," huffed the clerk, but he nodded.

"Oh good. Well we'd each like our own room."

"This is not possible," came the reply. "One wing of the hotel is being renovated and one wing is being torn down, so we only have seven rooms to book and the other six are taken, sir."

"I see," Douglas sighed. He glanced over at Martin, who was chewing on a thumbnail, then back at the clerk. "It is a double occupancy though, correct?"

"Yes," the clerk nodded. "Two people would be very comfortable there."

Comfortable however, translated into a single king-sized bed, and seeing it, Douglas realized that the clerk's concept was clearly cosmopolitan and not at _all_ reassuring to Martin, who stood like the proverbial bunny in the headlights. "I can't!" he bleated.

By now Douglas' patience had all but vanished, and he barely refrained from rolling his eyes. "Yes, you_ can_," he snapped. "You've had absolutely no problem sprawling yourself on a mattress with me before, and if you're worried that I have designs on your person may I remind you that my prescription is safely at home with Charlie?"

"Yes but-"

"But nothing," Douglas hoisted his suitcase onto the luggage rack and began to unpack. "The fact is we have a bed large enough for both of us and I'm not going to have you requesting some rickety rollaway that will collapse the moment you drop your bottom on it, Martin. I've already got a gamy knee; do you really want to end up with your back full of kinks from the floor, or a crick in your neck from sleeping on a chair?"

He didn't look at Martin as he spoke, but could sense the other man beginning to relax by inches. Tentatively Martin moved his own suitcase to the dresser top. "No," came the reluctant reply. "When you put it like that, certainly not."

"Good. I don't know why you're as twitchy at Arthur in a Toblerone shop and at this point I don't care. I think we ought to see what we can get for dinner, call Charlie and then turn in. How does that sound to Sir?"

The little jibe was enough to get a quick frown from Martin, but he nodded and bent to his own unpacking. "Fine. Perhaps I overreacted a bit, but we've always had Charlie as sort of a . . . buffer."

"A _both_ man's land?" Douglas riposted.

"That's mean," came the reply, half disapproving, half chuckle.

"I thought it fit into her World War One interests very well myself."

"Douglas, what I meant is that she's been the_ reason_ we've shared a bed. We're both interested in _her_, not . . . each other," Martin clarified quietly. "Honestly, the last person of the same gender that I shared a bed with was my rotten brother Simon back during holiday camp, and I spent at least half the time either shoved to the foot of the bed or dumped out on the floor."

"Traumatic," Douglas murmured, "but in the past. I know you're not used to an arrangement like this, but I assure you I fully intend to _sleep_, Martin. I don't thrash about and unlike certain people I don't snore."

That got the expected protest, and Douglas grinned to himself as Martin predictably rose to the bait. "I don't snore! I . . . breathe with authority, that's all."

"You _do_ snore, and further, it's the softest sweetest little teakettle whistle, perfect for a Disney film."

"I do _not_!" Martin latched onto the argument with clear relief, and Douglas let him protest all the way down to dinner.

**Martin—**

Martin wasn't quite sure _how_ to feel about Douglas teasing him these days. Early on he'd detested it; felt it was like living with Simon and Caitlyn all over again with the constant bickering and put-downs and competitions-familiar but still disagreeable.

But somewhere down the line—and this was even before the arrival of Charlie—things had changed. Martin wasn't sure exactly when it had happened, but there _had_ come a shift in the tenor of their relationship. Douglas had less acid to his comments, less vitriol and more wit, if that was possible. Oh he still was the first person they all turned to for solutions, and Douglas certainly managed to keep their bacon out of the fire time after time, but he did so now with only a minimum of smugness and more bemusement.

Martin chalked part of that up to constant exposure to Arthur, who radiated goodwill the way the sun poured out ultraviolet light. Nobody could get away with being too cynical around Arthur Shappey; he seemed to run on rainbow-flavored unicorn juice most of the time.

The other part seemed to come from Douglas himself. Martin supposed that the man's divorce had been very freeing—he no longer had to hide his work rank from, or grapple with an unfaithful wife. The fact that Douglas would even make self-deprecating jokes was very telling these days, and Martin knew he liked _this_ Douglas much better.

And now there was Charlie as well. She was a damned good influence on them both, and Martin knew it. Charlie knew how to jolly them out of bad moods and mediate their disagreements, and at the same time she turned to them for comfort and support as well. If it wasn't for the problem of bigamy, Martin suspected they'd all be heading for some sort of legally recognized union. Unfortunately the UK still considered two the prime number for such things.

A pity, Martin thought. So far what he, Charlie and Douglas had seemed to be working nicely so far. It was still the early days yet, and nobody had met anybody else's family as such, but still-

Dinner ended up being grilled sardines on a bed of fluffy paella; surprisingly good despite the simplicity of the meal. Martin didn't mind fish and when Douglas urged him to enjoy both glasses of the complimentary wine that came with the meal, he did. Nice stuff it was, very fortifying.

It was odd that the sidewalk back to the hotel was so uneven. Martin found himself stumbling a bit; Douglas steadied him, murmuring something about being a light-weight. Martin took a moment of umbrage at that and said so.

"I take umbrage at that," he huffed. "Two glasses of wine are hardly anielbreating."

"Martin, _you_ can get inebriated on mouthwash," came the retort. "Come on; time for bed."

That sounded good to Martin. The chance to lie down definitely appealed to him, and he let Douglas steer him through the complicated maze of the Velasco's reconstruction, giggling as he successfully missed putting his foot into one of the paint buckets along the hallway.

"All right, _this_ way," Douglas jollied him along, and within six steps Martin flopped himself face down on the comforter, feeling silly and pleased with himself.

"I missed the paint! Did you see that? Even after two glasses of wine, I missed the paint! That _never_ happens. I normally would have ended up with a coated shoe and no place to wipe it clean," he babbled into the bed. "And usually it's not _paint_, either."

"I suppose we can be glad the Velasco isn't hosting a dog show," Douglas agreed. "Would you like to say goodnight to Charlie?"

"Yes," Martin nodded, rubbing his nose on the quilt. He rolled over, feeling dizzy from the exertion, and took the mobile from Douglas, bringing it to his ear after two clumsy attempts. "Hallo darling."

"Hello sweetheart," came Charlie's voice over the connection; slightly tinny and amused. "You sound happy."

"Oh I am. I missed the paint," Martin bragged. "Both shoes are completely clean."

"That's wonderful," Charlie replied. "Is this some new game Arthur made up, by the way?"

"No, no, just me. Douglas gave me his wine at dinner, and he thinks it's pimeeded my abilities but it hasn't not even a little bit."

"Oh good," Charlie laughed. "I'm so glad you're not impeded at all darling. Will you promise me to go to sleep now and fly back safely tomorrow?"

Martin yawned and nodded. "Yeeeeeeeeahssss. Miss you. Adore you. You would have loved the sardines." He handed the mobile back to Douglas and lay there half-listening to the other man's half of the conversation, feeling pleasantly mellow. It was comfortable to close his eyes . . .

And when he opened them again it was dark. And nice. Martin felt a comfortable sense of relaxation as he snuggled closer, wrapping himself against a warm spine, savoring the shared heat, feeling a little amorous. Lightly, drowsily, Martin rubbed his cheek against the shoulder blade near to his face.

Something nagged at him but it didn't seem terribly important. His bladder wasn't full and he didn't feel nauseous and Charlie was wonderfully warm . . . Martin felt a small surge of arousal and grinned. Lightly he kissed the shoulder and pressed closely. "Darling," he whispered. "Do you love me?"

He'd said it to her before of course; many times actually, but it was a greater, sweeter thrill to hear it back. Charlie's declarations were generally full-body affairs that generally left him snogged within an inch of his life; a state Martin found he loved down to the depth of him.

"Of course I do," came the deep whisper back, and it took Martin a few belated seconds to realize that it _wasn't_ Charlie's voice at all. Humiliation came crashing down, and Martin tried to yank himself away from Douglas's broad pajama-covered back but the sheets—so carefully tucked and confining—snagged, and he ended up yanking both of them over, Douglas on his back and he himself slightly strangled in a twist of cloth.

"Stop thrashing; you'll do yourself an injury," Douglas ordered lightly. "Good lord, Martin if you kill yourself I'll have hell to pay in the morning you know."

"Well I won't care because I'll be _dead_!" Martin hissed through gritted teeth. "And honestly, at this moment it's the preferred outcome! You _tricked_ me!"

"I did no such thing!" Douglas protested. "I put you to bed and kept myself turned away from you all night to save you any sort of paranoia. It's certainly not _my_ fault if you're a born cuddler of the first water. You were the one plastering yourself to _me_, Martin, not the other way around I'll have you know."

Martin felt the heat of his blush rise, knowing full-well that Douglas had him dead to rights. He _was_ a cuddler, always eager to cling to whatever could share warmth, be it a pillow or another body. He tried to shift away but the tangle of the sheets kept him close to the other man's side. "It was a mistake."

"Yes I know," came the patient reply. "And while it's taking supreme effort on my part, I'm not going to hold it against you."

"Douglas!"

"Sorry Martin," and he could hear the grin in Douglas' voice, "But it was too good a comeback not to use in this case. Now listen to me: we're due to the airport in four hour's time and both of us need that rest. I promise have no intention of seducing you in any way, shape or form so I suggest you take me at my word and get back to sleep."

Martin relaxed a tiny bit, shooting a sidelong glance at his bed partner. "You promise?"

"Scout's honor. All right, maybe that's a bad example, but I do promise. Adorable as you are I'm not in the mood to expand my erotic repertoire."

The tired and pragmatic tone of his voice let Martin relax more fully, and he gave a sigh of his own. "Yes, all right. Sorry about that. I suppose I am a bit of a clingy sort."

"Comes from having no body fat," Douglas murmured back. "Whereas I have enough for both of us."

"You're not fat! You're . . . solid," Martin loyally countered. "It's muscle and bulk."

"Sir is too kind. Now let's just get some sleep."

He settled in, trying not to touch Douglas and despite his insecurity, fatigue won out and Martin drifted off again. His last thought before giving in to sleep was that sleeping next to Douglas wasn't quite as strange as he'd thought it would be. The familiar scent and comforting warmth seemed not only right—

but good too. Very good.


End file.
